


Life in Glass Houses

by blueskyscribe



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime, Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, Shattered Glass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 106,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueskyscribe/pseuds/blueskyscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one would have thought Bumblebee and Knock Out were capable of getting along, but when they're stuck in a strange new world and their only hope of survival is cooperation . . .  Yeah, they're probably doomed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Merrily We Roll Along

Traveling's the fun  
Flashing by the countryside  
Making you think merrily, merrily  
What can go wrong?  
Rolling along!

     - Merrily We Roll Along, Stephen Sondheim

 

Bumblebee was _not_ sulking, thank you very much. He was not sulking at _all._ He hoisted his metal eyeridges into an exaggerated, cheery position to prove it. He didn’t snap at Bulkhead when he stepped on his foot. He even forced himself to hum a little electronic ditty as he ran through a routine check of his systems. He was an _Autobot_ , after all. Just because no one CARED that Raf and Bumblebee had been planning a picnic today, just because Ratchet insisted he needed Raf to check the programming on the new security system instead, just because the chicken salad would probably go bad and poison Raf _and then he’d die_ , that didn’t mean Bumblebee was going to pout.

For one thing, he didn’t have the lips for it.

Still, the yellow ‘bot had to stifle an electronic grumble as he watched Bulkhead and Miko duking it out in the latest fighting game. No one ever asked _Miko_ to fix this or check that. Everybody tried to _prevent_ Miko from taking too much of an interest in Autobot activities.

For the millionth time, Bumblebee looked over at the computer console. Ratchet was leaning over the workstation, typing away, while Raf was sitting on the edge of the massive desk, checking the source code on his laptop. Bumblebee wandered over, hoping against hope that Raf would finish soon.

“Oh, hey ‘Bee!” his human partner greeted him, looking up. The smile on the boy’s face cheered Bumblebee.

“Hey Raf. Can I help?” the yellow ‘bot beeped, absently picking up one of the gadgets on a nearby tray.

“Bumblebee!” Ratchet instantly snatched the miniature blowtorch out his hand. “Don’t fool around with my tools! They’re delicate!”

“I wasn’t going to break them,” Bumblebee said, trying to maintain his not-sulk. “I’m not Bulkhead.”

“Hey!” Bulkhead protested, looking up from the couch. Miko took advantage of his distraction and kicked his character in the head a half dozen times. “HEY!” he said again as he looked at the screen and saw his life bar draining away.

Raf ignored their skirmish, giving Bumblebee a smile. “Sure, ‘Bee. You can—”

“Stay out of the way while we WORK,” Ratchet interrupted, waving a hand. “Now shoo!”

“But—” 

“I mean it! I don’t want you distracting Rafael.”

“Fine . . .” Bumblebee stalked away, forgetting that he wasn’t sulking.

“Hey ‘Bee, you wanna play the winner?” Miko called. “And by the winner, I mean ME!”

“Nuh uh, ME!” Bulkhead retorted, hunching over his own controller.

“No thanks,” Bumblebee said, with a shake of his head for the benefit of Miko. Humans never understood him. Except Raf, of course. His optics veered towards his human partner, who gave a helpless smile and a shrug. “I’m going for a drive.”

“A drive?” Ratchet glanced up again. Really, was he going to stick his servo in this too? “Hmm . . . well, be careful. Maybe Smokescreen should go with you.”

“No, I’ll be fine,” Bumblebee beeped a little too quickly. Sure, he liked the Smokescreen on a personal level, but the new recruit had a tendency to speed first and pay the ticket later. “Just open up a ground bridge and put me down anywhere. Somewhere new.”

“All right,” the Autobot medic agreed, tapping some buttons. “Have fun.”

Fun would’ve been having Raf with him, but Bumblebee didn’t bother to point that out.

A few minutes later, Bumblebee was rolling out of the glow of a space bridge portal. Smooth green hills rolled on either side of him with an open highway stretching invitingly in between. Bumblebee accepted the invitation. He accelerated.

Okay, he had to admit it, this WAS fun. Maybe not as much fun as it would’ve been with his partner riding with him, but it was still good to feel the grip of his tires on the road, the wind rushing past his sleek finish and the sunshine warming his black and yellow paint job. His gas pedal sank towards the floor as he watched the mileposts whip by. The green hills fell away, replaced by a land that was at once striking and barren. Odd rock formations rose, striated with bands of rust red, dusty orange, and deep black.

Bumblebee beeped in surprise; they reminded him a little of the rocks around Jasper, but he’d asked Ratchet to put him somewhere new, hadn’t he? He checked his navigational systems: “Badlands National Park, South Dakota.” What a terrible name to give to such a beautiful area. He adjusted his side mirrors to get a better look at the striking landscape.

Suddenly he slowed down, adjusting his mirrors again and looking more closely. He’d seen a glint of metal, far in the hills . . . and it seemed oddly familiar . . .

Practice, as they say, makes perfect; Bumblebee had had plenty of practice spotting Decepticons. Reconnaissance was a scout’s main function, after all. He wasn’t able to pinpoint exactly what it was about that brief glimmer that suggested a ‘Con rather than some human’s car, but he trusted his instincts. He took an off-ramp and rolled quietly down the backroads to investigate.

* * *

  

“—and that’s why energon production is down, sir,” the Vehicon foreman finished. “We were hoping you could set up some kind of treatment or vaccine or whatever.”

Knock Out gave him a level look. “The holo-flu?” His raised eyebrow suggested that he might be amused or might be angry, and that the miner had better hope it was the former. “You called me down here to treat . . . the holo-flu.”

The Vehicon shuffled in place. “Well, sir, it has cut our productivity by almost nine percent . . .”

“Reeeally? I’m aghast.” For that measly amount of energon production he was expected to treat who knew how many drones? His eyes flicked to the group lingering at the entrance of the mine, gathered to gawp at a Decepticon officer. No wonder their production was down, the slackers.

“Oh yes, sir, nine percent’s correct,” the foreman said, oblivious to Knock Out’s ire. “I have the calculations right here—” He fumbled with a datapad, only to have it lifted from his grasp. The Decepticon medic didn’t actually look at it, just swirled the datapad around, pinned between two sharp, pointy fingers.

“Well, we’ll just have to see what we can do, won’t we?” Knock Out said, using his most jovial voice.

The miner’s shoulders untensed slightly in unconscious relief. “Thank you, sir.”

“Just send, oh, three mechs up to my lab.” He spared a glance at the datapad before tossing it casually over his shoulder. “Yes, I think three, to begin with.”

“Uh, are you sure, Doctor? There are almost a hundred miners, and almost half of them have the flu. If you only treat a few at a time . . .”

“Ah-ah, first things first. Treatment comes later. After a _thorough_ examination.” His circular saw flipped out of his wrist, the teeth glinting.

“B-but . . .” The Vehicon took a step back from Knock Out’s grin. It was the kind of smile mechs didn’t forget, although they often tried. “But we know what the problem is, sir, it’s the holo-flu. They’ve got all the symptoms—runny energon, minor leaks, blurry vision . . .”

“The layman’s point-of-view is always appreciated, B-023.” Knock Out said, his eyes half closed. “But Lord Megatron will expect a _professional_ assessment of this epidemic. Don’t worry, I’ve had plenty of experience cutting to the root of a problem.” He revved his saw and the teeth spun into one sharp, silver blur. “So. Three test subjects—patients, I mean—to start with. Just point them out and I’ll collect them post haste.” He reached over his shoulder for his staff and let a burst of energy crackle over the prongs.

“Uh. Uhhhhh.” B-023’s optics slid rapidly from the medical officer to the now horrified group of Vehicons huddling by the mine’s entrance. . “You know, sir . . . I think ‘epidemic’ might be too strong of a word. In fact . . . in fact, now that I think about it, I don’t think it’s the holo-flu—or anything else—at all. Just sheer laziness. You know how it is, one ‘bot starts moaning about some little thing to get out of work and before you know it a bunch of other ‘bots are doing the same thing—”

Knock Out allowed himself to look disappointed. “Malingering’s not uncommon, of course.”

“Malingering, yeah! Took the word right out of my vocals. The no-good mechs who were complaining are malingerers, that’s all. After I lay down the law—and am I ever gonna lay down the law—they’ll shape up. I’m really sorry,” he finished, casting nervous glances at Knock Out, “to have wasted your time, Doctor.”

“Just doing my job, B-023,” Knock Out smiled the saintly smile of mech who has just found a significant chunk of free time on his social calendar. “Just doing my job.”

* * *

  

Bumblebee watched the scene play out from behind a boulder. He couldn’t hear everything from his current position, but he got the gist of the situation. The Vehicon foreman was now gesturing to the other miners, who brought some energon cubes out of the mine, perhaps attempting to impress the medic. Knock Out took a cube and turned it over in his hands, but his examination was cursory and his body language bored.

_Time for me to make tracks,_ Bumblebee decided. He quietly turned around . . . and met an outstretched arm with a missile attached to it.

“Hold it right there, Autobot.” A Vehicon was blocking his way, a flyer. His weapon remained centered on Bumblebee’s spark chamber.

The Autobot scout weighed his options. He didn’t want to fight every Vehicon in the place. Should he transform and race away? He was fast, but so was Knock Out, and it wouldn’t take long for the mad doctor to catch on after this Vehicon sounded the alarm.

_If_ this Vehicon got a chance to sounded the alarm.

“Well,” Bumblebee beeped theatrically, “you got me.” He held up his empty hands.

“What? What’d you say?”

Bumblebee’s optics flicked in annoyance. “I said I’m your prisoner now. You won.”

“Why’re you talking like that?” the Vehicon growled. “You’d better not try anything funny! You’re my prisoner now!”

“ . . . right.” What an idiot. It didn’t take _that_ much effort to understand Universal Aural Binary. “I’m sure your boss will have lots of questions for me.”

The flyer must have understood that part, because he glanced beyond Bumblebee, towards the clearing where Knock Out and the Vehicon foreman stood. Just a second’s distraction. It was all Bumblebee needed.

The yellow scout lunged, catching the Vehicon in the stomach with his head. The Vehicon let out a static-filled squawk as he tumbled to the ground, but had enough presence of mind to kick Bumblebee as he fell. The Autobot stumbled backwards as the Vehicon leveled his missile at him.

Bumblebee threw himself to the side and the missile sped past him. He swirled around to see it rocketing across the clearing, leaving a trail of smoke as it . . . oh no, oh slag _no_ . . . as it _disappeared into the entrance of the energon mine._

Bumblebee and his Vehicon foe stood dumbly for a moment, staring. Bumblebee recovered first. He didn’t look back or worry about staying hidden. He just turned and ran, as fast as he could.

A moment later the shockwave slammed the Vehicon soldier into his back, knocking both the ‘bots to the ground. Bumblebee’s last thought, as the earth shook and a wall of white fire exploded around him, was that this was a stupid way to die.


	2. The Final Countdown

_Thud . . . thud . . . thud._    Somewhere beyond the throbbing of his head a sound repeated in a steady rhythm.

Bumblebee knew he needed to get up.  Somehow he found himself staring at the dirt in front of him instead.  The ground looked so different from down here.  He could see tiny cracks webbing across the dry earth, their edges slightly curled skyward.  Small tufts of grass clung to the thin topsoil.  Bumblebee’s optics whirred as he tried to remember what had happened.

Slowly his thoughts came into focus.  _Decepticons.  Energon mine. Explosion._

He moved gingerly as he booted up his self-diagnostics program.  One leg badly injured, the armor plating on it cracked and the hydraulics warped painfully.  Some minor damage to his neck—hard to turn it—and a weight on his back that he quickly identified as the body of the Vehicon who had fired the unlucky shot.  Bumblebee eased out from under the offline Decepticon and pulled himself up to peek over the boulder.

_Thud . . . thud . . . thud._    Something gleamed luridly through the murk of smoke and ash.  Something red.  Knock Out.

The steady cadence of the Decepticon’s footsteps, the glowing sweep of his optics, the sway of the electro-staff balanced on his shoulder—there was a horrible deliberateness to all of it. His posture should not have been so casual, not with a smoking pile of rubble where an energon mine used to be and gouges all up and down his chest plate.  Only the slight clench of his jaw hinted at some inner turmoil at the destruction of an energy source—or, more likely, the damage to his paintjob.

As far as Bumblebee could tell, Knock Out had suffered only cosmetic scrapes in the blast. He must have had Unicron’s own luck to have avoided a crippling injury—or, Bumblebee reflected bitterly, the presence of mind to shove a few Vehicons in front of him as a living shield.

Well, as much as he hated to admit it, it didn't make sense to take on the uninjured Decepticon. Discretion was definitely the better part of valor in this instance. On elbows and knees, Bumblebee crawled away from the scene of the disaster.

His joints froze as a whining whirr sounded close behind him.

Apparently the flyer who'd crashed into him wasn’t dead after all.  Apparently he was coming online.  Apparently Bumblebee was in a whole lot of trouble.

* * *

Knock Out crouched next to the Vehicon foreman, grabbed his arm, and heaved the body over with a well-controlled movement that was just a little quicker and rougher than it should’ve been.  The medic’s optics narrowed as he stared at the half-melted faceplate of B-023.  Oh sure, _this_ slagger wouldn’t be chewed out on the bridge of the Nemesis for having such an idiotic, trigger-happy crew.  Just Knock Out.

His buzzsaw whined as he bent over the corpse.  If nothing else, he was coming back with some salvage.  Small value compared to a mine full of energon, but it would give him some personal satisfaction.

Knock Out reached for another Vehicon, lifting it by the upper arm.  This drone had been slammed into the ground by the shockwave, so hard that his chest had crumpled in on itself. But the legs were still whole; they swung and twisted in the wind until Knock Out lowered the carcass and set to work. 

Pull the joint out here, sever the cables there, it was all routine; he let his mind wander.  _Another mine blown to scrap.  Lord Megatron is going to blow a gasket._ He moved on to a tangle of bodies, thrown together by the blast.  He flipped an arm sideways here and pushed one limp leg under another as he started to separate them with practiced efficiency.  _But then again . . . with the Insecticons gone, does one energon mine really_ matter? _Less mouths to feed and all that._

He was pondering whether he dared advance this argument to Lord Megatron (it seemed rather _Starscreamish)_ when a sound made him raise his head suddenly, sharply.   A sort of whining whirr . . .

Knock Out tossed the leg of a tank drone aside as he stood. The noise had come from a cluster of boulders that still stood, despite cracks across them from the explosion.  There—what was that?  A sort of scuttling?  He gripped his staff with both hands, holding it at the ready as he swung around the boulders.

Nothing.

Knock Out stood tensed for another minute, watching and waiting.  Finally he lowered his staff.  Maybe it had been his imaginat—

“WAUGH!”  The Decepticon medic recoiled as a half-melted hand emerged from a pile of debris and clutched at his foot.  Leaping backwards only dragged the body out into the open.  Knock Out stopped kicking wildly long enough to slam the butt of his staff on the hand.  The fingers jerked open and the medic backed away with the quick (not to say paranoid) reaction of one who has recently survived a plague of zombies.

“Owwww . . .” moaned the purple pile of metal heaped at his feet.

Oh.  Just another Vehicon.  Knock Out forced himself to relax, surreptitiously checking the other Decepticon’s optics—yes, they were red like they ought to be, not zombie-purple—before crouching to examine him.

“Well, well, a survivor . . . ”  He pulled out a handheld scanner, moving it above the drone’s body.

“Thought . . . I was a g-goner,” the Vehicon gasped.

“Mmmm,” Knock Out said noncommittally, watching the lines on the scanner spike and fall.  His finger tapped on his chin, _ping ping ping._   He’d seen the incoming missile, and he could work out angles of trajectory as well as the next 'Con.  “Did you see what happened?  Quite the fireworks display.”

“N-no, I didn’t see nothin’,” the Vehicon said quickly. “Nothin’ at all.  The shot came from the other ddirection.  N-not that I saw what direction it came from. ‘Cause I didn’t.”

“I see.”  Knock Out’s tone was somewhere in between politely disbelieving and bitingly sarcastic as he wrenched the Vehicon’s chest plate open to examine his internals.  The Vehicon’s whimper might have been due to secret shame or it might have been because the doctor was rummaging through his circuitry with little regard to his pain sensors.

Knock Out swung the scanner over him again, steadying it above his spark chamber.  His needle-sharp fingers rested on the blast-scarred chassis for a moment as his eyes dropped to the Vehicon’s faceplate.  Finally he flicked open a compact compartment in his lower arm and pried a small cylinder out.  A drop of blue liquid hung off the needle at the end of it.

“Wh-what is that?” The flyer’s limbs jerked spasmodically as he tried to push himself away from the medic.

“A sedative,”  Knock Out said in a soothing tone, although the effect was diminished when he pinned the Vehicon’s head against the ground with one swift movement. In Knock Out's experience, the safest way to deal with patients was to take them by surprise. Indeed, the Vehicon barely had time to tense before the needle sank into the fuel conduit running down his neck.  “Time for some beauty sleep, flyboy.  And believe me, you need it.”

“I don’t, don’t need a s-sed—“

"Oh yes you do. And when you wake up . . ." He watched the glow behind the Vehicon's eyes die away as it fell into stasis. Knock Out flicked the empty cylinder away and flipped out his buzzsaw. "Well, that won't be an issue."

A moment later he stepped over the Vehicon's body.

What a day.

 

* * *

Raf had tried to explain to Bumblebee, once, what “the heebie jeebies” were.  Since his explanation kept going back to shuddering, shivering, and goosepimples (which required an entirely separate explanation and strangely had nothing to do with geese), Bumblebee had concluded that the heebie jeebies were a mysterious biological function of the human epidermal layer.  Perhaps something to do with absorbing Vitamin A.

Now, crouched behind a boulder with his hands clamped over the energon leak in his leg, Bumblebee had come to a new conclusion.  The heebie jeebies were part of a complex subroutine that was activated when a certain threshold of creepiness and wrongness was reached.  Under the right circumstances, a Cybertronian could certainly experience the heebie jeebies—for example, if one was forced into close proximity with a mad doctor who dismembered and offlined his own teammates without a qualm.

_Get it together, Bumblebee,_ the Autobot scout told himself sternly.  _Don’t think about that, think about getting out of here.  Now . . . what’s that Decepticreep up to?_

He peered around the boulder.  The Decepticon medic was still alarmingly close to his hiding place, but he didn’t seem to be looking for stray Autobots.  His back was to Bumblebee and as he absently twirled his staff in his sharp fingers.  Bumblebee followed his gaze;  an enormous gouge in the earth marked where the entrance of the mine used to be.  What had been a tunnel was now open to the air and blackened from the explosion, although it was blocked off by rubble further on.

Bumblebee wondered if he should attack;  if he _had_ to fight, he should try to take the ‘Con by surprise.  But before he could reach a decision, Knock Out sauntered away.  The reason became apparent as he began collecting all the "spare parts" he’d hacked off earlier.

His voice floated across the clearing as he began sorting them by type.  “This is Knock Out, requesting a ground bridge.  And a few Vehicons wouldn’t come amiss; I’d rather not stain my upholstery carrying—well, just send some troopers, you’ll see . . . ”  A frown grew on his face. “You can’t get a lock, really?  Well, I suggest you try harder, because I expect—“

Bumblebee took advantage of his distraction to radio his own base.  “Ratchet, this is Bumblebee.  I ran into ‘Cons and I need a bridge home, stat.”

“What? Decepticons?  Bumblebee!  I told you to be careful!” (As though he had run into them on purpose!)  “What happened?  Do you need a rescue?”

Bumblebee considered.  “No. They don’t know I’m here and there’s nothing worth fighting for here, not anymore.”

“Anymore?”

 “Kablooie.”

“I see.  All right.  Standby for a bridge.“

"Ratchet, what's happening?  Is 'Bee okay?"

Bumblebee smiled at the concern in his partner's voice.  "I'm fine, Raf. And wait till you hear what I just saw. An explosion that makes that Slash Monkey concert look like nothing! As soon as I'm back I'll—"

"About that," Ratchet interrupted.  “Bumblebee, I’m having trouble putting the signal through.  Something about the topography is causing interference.”

Bumblebee’s spark sank. “So . . .?”

“I’ll put one down as close as I can, but you may need to make a dash for it.”

“No problem.”  Bumblebee glanced down at his cracked leg.

Something in his tone must have worried Raf because he asked, “Are you sure you’re all right?  Are there Decepticons?”

“I’m okay.  I'm fine. There’s just one, and he doesn’t even know I’m here.” 

“Oh reaaally,” someone drawled from behind him.  Bumblebee’s optics widened as swirled to see Knock Out standing with his staff at the ready and a smirk on his face. 

* * *

Knock Out felt a warm glow of benevolence towards the Autobot, a feeling which would not, of course, prevent him from throwing Bumblebee under the proverbial bus.  That was the whole _reason_ for the warmth, after all.  Producing a saboteur who had blown up the mine (and that _could_ even be the truth for all he knew) would certainly deflect Lord Megatron’s wrath.  The big boss might even be pleased with him.

So Knock Out's tone was casual, almost friendly, when he asked, “Is that a new paint job I see? So much black.  A little cliché, a little _safe,_ but not bad.  It almost seems a shame to— _no,_ Autobot, I think not.”  His staff whirled and Bumblebee’s stingers were knocked sideways seconds before they fired.   One shot impacted harmlessly in the soil, the other left a shallow burn across Bumblebee's own arm casing.

“Get fried, Decepticreep,” the other mech warbled as he aimed a punch at Knock Out’s jaw.  The Decepticon wove out of the way. 

“Careful, you’re injured.  Tell me, does it hurt when I do this?”  Electricity sizzled along the prongs of the staff as he plunged it against the cracks in Bumblebee’s leg.  The Autobot fell with an electronic shriek of pain, clutching the wound. 

Knock Out smirked as he walked in a circle around the incapacitated yellow mech.  “Now the only question is whether I should haul you in dead or alive.  I suppose you could provide valuable information, hmm?”  He prodded the Autobot’s back with the staff and got only a moan in response.  “Lord Megatron would be _so_ pleased to learn where you Autobots are holing up now that your old base is, shall we say, out of service.”

“Get slagged,” Bumblebee snapped.  He bit back another screech as five sharp talons dug into his chestplate.  They sunk in deeper as he was jerked to his feet, stumbling on his injured leg.

“You first, Autobot.”  Knock Out purred.  “I’m sure that—”  He was cut off as Bumblebee grabbed the Decepticon's shoulders, pulled himself forward, and headbutted him with all his might.

“ARGH!” He staggered backwards, loosening his grip.  Bumblebee wrenched free and took three running strides before transforming into vehicle mode.  A cloud of dust erupted behind him as he took off across the rocky canyon.

“Why, you . . . little . . . _fiend!”_   Knock Out leapt forward, transforming.  His engine revved as he shot after his quarry.

Bumblebee adjusted his rear view mirror, trying to keep an eye on him, trying to keep an eye up ahead too, trying to ignore the pain in what had been his leg and was now his rear wheel. “Ratchet!  Where’s that ground bridge?!”

“Bumblebee?  I thought you said there was no immediate danger!”

“That was then, this is now!”  The diminutive Autobot swerved sharply to avoid being fried by a bolt of red energy.  He'd almost forgotten that Knock Out had energy blasters in vehicle mode.  Wonderful.

“Hang on!  Just hang on!”

“Hanging on! Like a kitten on a poster!” 

And there—THERE, in front of him--the air was glowing green-blue, the first signs of a ground bridge.  Bumblebee didn’t wait for it to fully materialize; he poured on the speed, wrenching his gas pedal down so far he thought it might punch through his undercarriage.  The pain was only a dull pulse now, masked by panic, excitement, and desperation.  But he could hear his rear axle rattling, could smell the burning rubber as his tire chafed against the inside of his wheel well.  It was slowing him down, but he was going to make it—

Wait.  Why had Knock Out stopped firing?

The red Aston Martin was close behind him but not gaining and that was all wrong.  Two muscle cars, one with heavy damage—the outcome should’ve been “like duh”, as Miko would say.  But the Decepticon was hanging back, like he didn’t even _care_ that Bumblebee was about to escape, like he was herding him _towards_ the—

“Bumblebee, are you still there?  The ground bridge should appear in five to ten seconds!  Bumblebee?”

Oh slag.   He was speeding towards the _wrong ‘bridge._

The landscape spun as he slammed on his brakes.  He heard rather than felt his axle snap, leaving his wheel collapsed at an unnatural angle.  It didn’t matter.  He transformed and heaved himself to his feet, swirling around.  He had a vague idea of laying down enough cover fire with his stingers to rush past the Decepticon.

He didn’t get a chance.   Sleek, low, and fast, the red sports car accelerated towards him.  At the last moment Knock Out transformed, catching Bumblebee in a flying tackle.   “Ha!  Gotcha!”

The triumph on his face changed to shock as a second ground bridge opened directly on top of the first.  The two intersecting fields of energy thrummed, their greenish glow darkening into something opaque and broiling.  Lightning crackled as the two bots were engulfed. 


	3. Somewhere

"I don't much care where . . . so long as I get _somewhere,"_ Alice added as an explanation.

"Oh, you're sure to do that," said the Cat, "if you only walk long enough."

\- Lewis Carroll, _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_

* * *

Bumblebee didn't turn on his optics until he hit the ground, hard enough to bounce. Then he heaved himself up and began to run.

Dust rose in clouds every time his feet hit the dirt, and rocky outcrops still towered above him.  The ground bridge must have fizzled out.  At least he hadn't fizzled with it.  It had been all wrong, walls made out of empty space all looping and warped, like something Escher might have drawn if he'd been more interested in xeno-engineering and less interested in stairs.

Bumblebee shut it out of his mind, focused on keeping his legs moving, braced himself for the pain that jolted through his systems every time his left foot hit the ground. 

The scout's spark sank as he heard the familiar sound of transformation behind him, followed by the purr of an engine.  He kept going, his path unconsciously curving as he tried to spare his injured leg.  The red Aston Martin drew up beside him, keeping pace.

"Bumblebeee." Knock Out drew out the vowel, his deep voice so pitying and smug that it must have been deliberately calculated to irritate.  "Where do you think you're _going?_   We both know how this is going to end."  He dodged a blast from Bumblebee's stingers without apparent chagrin and without slowing down.  "Four-wheels trumps two-legs, so why don't you just—"

It was at this point that Knock Out slammed into a Vehicon hard enough to send it tumbling backwards over his roof.

The strangeness of the moment shocked them both into silence.  Bumblebee kept running and Knock Out fought his way out of a spin.  Gathering all his strength, the yellow and black Autobot took advantage of the distraction and clawed his way over some boulders.  It looked like a good hiding place.

It would've been, too, if it hadn't been for what was on the other side.

* * *

Knock Out had just caught the flash of movement as Bumblebee struggled over the rocks.  He transformed, shaking his head.  Did that idiot Autobot really think it was going to be that easy?  Knock Out's strides lengthened into a lope and then a run.   In mid-stride he dug his staff into the ground, vaulting himself into the sky.  Despite the gouges and scuffs down his front, the sun blazed across his lustrous finish and the staff twirling in his grip spat lightning in jagged bolts.

The ground trembled in a very satisfactory way as he landed, but he was irritated to discover the Autobot staring frozenly at a troop of Vehicon soldiers.  He hadn't noticed Knock Out's spectacular entrance at all!  The Vehicons had, and automatically jerked their guns towards him.  But they were Vehicons.  They didn't count.

"Oh, so you lot finally turned up, did you?" Knock Out said, running an optic over the drones. "Good.  As you can see, I have one prisoner to transport, plus some salvage around here . . . some . . . place." 

Knock Out's vocals slowed as he stared around. Not twenty feet away from him was the entrance of the mine—grungy but functional, and showing no signs that it had been torn apart in an earth-shattering example of combustion just an hour before.  No smoke, no burn marks, no destruction.  As though the explosion had never happened.

His eyes returned to the Vehicons, studying. 

They were an unusual shade, sky blue.

And their guns hadn't lowered.

And the one in front had his designation painted on the right-hand side of his chestplate.  B-023.

Knock Out's eyes flicked sideways, noting that Bumblebee's hands were slightly raised, ready to draw out his stingers but not, unfortunately, stupid enough to do it quite yet.

The direct approach, then. 

"Excuse me, are you deaf?"  The medic crossed his arms, then immediately wished he hadn't.  He couldn't use any of his weapons like this.  "I _believe_ I told you to pick up that salvage."  Technically there wasn't any salvage.  So what?  Keep going. "Or perhaps you have _better_ things to do than follow the orders of your superiors?" he finished in his most sarcastic tone, raising an eyeridge so high it disappeared under his helm. 

"Who are you?" someone shouted from the back.  There was always one. "You're not . . . Who are you?"

Knock Out rested his optics on the mass of Vehicons muttering and shifting in front of him and dug the speaker out of the crowd with his eyes. The miners in his path parted in a hush as he sauntered up to the challenger. The Vehicon's flinch gave him hope.

"I," he said, giving his words all the weight, disdainful pride, and arrogance they deserved, "am a Decepticon officer."

There was a moment's silence before the Vehicons opened fire.

* * *

Bumblebee didn't even have to think; his stingers sprang out at the first sound of gunfire.  Most of the miners pressed towards the middle of the crowd, even shooting into it, completely focused on the Decepticon who had so dramatically drawn their attention, but a few had swiveled around to shoot at Bumblebee, an easier and unobstructed target. 

The Autobot returned fire as he backed towards the boulders, but he had to stop shooting to scramble over the rocks.  As laser blasts seered all around him, he prayed to Primus that he would escape before the rest of the mob remembered him or finished off Knock Out.  So far the Decepticon medic was still up, screaming for Starscream and hurling curses at the Vehicons by turns, but Bumblebee had seen some of those first shots hit home.

The scout tumbled over the rock and hit the ground with a sense of relief that almost stunned him.  A blast of laserfire had grazed his shoulder and his left leg felt like it was about to fall off, but he ran without slowing until he had ducked behind the base of a craggy pinnacle.  Rock walls rose up protectively on three sides—a good, defensible position.   For a time.

"Bumblebee to base, Bumblebee to base! Answer, damn it!  RATCHET, WHERE ARE YOU?!" 

Bumblebee was futilely smacking the communicator in his wrist when a roar split the air.  Knock Out tore into the open in vehicle mode and gunfire tore after him.  Laserburns already scarred his frame, and his swerving path owed as much to structural damage as to strategy.  He nearly lost control as he spun around to drive in reverse, pumping out red crackles of laser cannon fire at the pursuing Vehicons.

Bumblebee's spark sank as he saw that Knock Out was headed for his hiding place, then leapt in panic as the red sports car nearly plowed into him.

Knock Out's vehicle mode shifted and suddenly he was straightening and standing.  "Ah, so here you are," was all he said. His voice was calm and his hands were twitching slightly.  Several of his long, thin fingers had snapped at the tips and a plume of smoke was threading up from the burns on his back.

Bumblebee couldn't think of anything he could say except "What happened?", and he knew what had happened so that was out.  Finally he said, "I think you're on fire."

"I know I'm on fire, I'm a doctor, aren't I?!  Now shoot those slagging Vehicons, or were you going to invite them in for TEA?!"  Knock Out's calm shattered, his voice rising as he gestured so rapidly and violently that for a moment Bumblebee thought he was under attack.  But the medic just shoved him hard towards the edge of the rock.

Bumblebee fired a few blasts at the Vehicons, who dodged away en masse.  "YOU could be helping," the scout snapped.

"No ranged weapons."  The medic pulled out a roll of electrical tape, of all things, and began wrapping it around a split in his upper leg.

"What, none at _all?_ What kind of warrior are you?"

Knock Out threw him a scornful look and didn't answer.

"Why are those Vehicons after you, anyway?"  Bumblebee took more pot shots at the Vehicons while he waited for an answer.  None came. "You probably deserve it."

All Knock Out said was, "Am I still on fire?"

"No. But those red energon conduits on your back are offline."

"They're not conduits, they're lights.  Cosmetic."  Despite this, or because of it, Knock Out's eyes narrowed.  "I'm going to string every one of them up by their circuits."

"Let me know when you want to start," Bumblebee said sarcastically.  The Vehicons were getting bolder, pushing closer and closer to the rocky alcove every time they drove by. Sooner or later they were going to break through the meager defenses.

Knock Out edged over and took a look, growling a little as he reached the same conclusion.  His optics scanned across the landscape, now stretching with late afternoon shadows.  "Cover me."

"Huh?  What do you mea—" Bumblebee broke off with a squawk as the Decepticon grabbed him by the arm and forcibly flung him, stumbling, into the open.  The Autobot gave a gasp of static as the Vehicons eagerly zeroed in on him. 

"Knock Out, what the slag are you—KNOCK OUT!" he shouted as a red sports car screamed out of the temporary sanctuary.  "Oh, you slagger, you complete and utter—" Bumblebee flinched as a Vehicon's shot caught his shoulder.  Weaving and dodging, he returned fire as he frantically dove back into the sheltering rocks.  The sound of a thrumming engine receded as a battered red sports car sped into the distance.

* * *

Knock Out swung around the broad base of a rocky butte and  transformed, aching all over.  He didn't so much sit down as collapse against the rock wall.  This day, Primus help him, THIS DAY. 

"Knock Out to _Nemesis,"_ he muttered into his comm link, with a complete lack of faith which was in turn rewarded with a complete lack of response. 

"Starscream," he tried, "if you've broken the communications system _again,_ I'm going to switch your arms around next time you're on my table."  Still nothing.  Wonderful.

He could hear the firefight in the distance, the little "pew-pews" of the Autobot battling the Vehicons.  Hopefully the scout could hold them off long enough for Knock Out to . . . to what?  He was a grounder, he couldn't get up to the _Nemesis_ on his own.  He had a strong suspicion, based on what he'd seen, that the _Nemesis_ wasn't really an option anyway . . . but he pushed that thought to the back of his mind.  He had enough to deal with right now.

After some hesitation, he forced himself to his feet and started walking.  Vehicle mode would've been faster, but even his recent, brief drive had numbed his back.  Pain he could have dealt with, but the numbness made him nervous.  He walked.

The shadows stretched, long and thin, and he hated his aching feet and his aching back and the idiot Vehicons and the Autobot for not being Prime or someone useful like that and this war and this planet and the ruin of his paint which should be gleaming like fire in the setting sun—

"Aw, who do we gots here?  Did the widdle Deceptidumb get in a fight?"

—and now Smokescreen, slagging, fragging _Smokescreen_ was standing in front of him with his hands on his hips and a grin that Knock Out wanted badly, very badly, to punch off his stupid Autobot face.  And he hated him too.

But not quite as much as he hated what he was about to do.

"Autobot." Knock Out held up his hands as though in protest, his tone formal and his smile bitter.  "I . . . surrender."

 


	4. Destiny and Other Diversions

Whatever doesn't kill me  
Doesn't make me stronger,  
But I'm not going to give up yet.  
And if these walls should weaken  
I'm still strong enough to know  
I'm going to build them up again.

\- "Whatever Doesn't Kill Me", Finger Eleven

* * *

Knock Out was not surprised when Smokescreen kept his gun trained on him, but he hadn't expected the young Autobot to laugh.

"Seriously?" Smokescreen said, looking thoroughly amused by the situation.  "You're surrendering?  Awww, and you didn't even put up a fight."

"Maybe I've seen the error of my ways," the Decepticon replied, tilting his head to the side and forcing a smile.  What he'd really seen was error messages and dire warnings flashing through his internal diagnostics.  Taken individually, they informed him (as if he didn't know) that he was in a world of hurt.  Taken en masse, their message was very clear: "Find a med bay, ASAP."

"Nah, you're just crazy."  Smokescreen laughed again.  "All right, whatever.  Throw down your weapons. Got any blasters?"

"No."

"Where's that staff thingie of yours?"

"Broken in half," he shrugged. "Snapped in a Vehicon's spark chamber." He waited for the inevitable question, ready to explain how the simple-minded Vehicons had turned on their own medic due to a mutated virus overloading their circuits. 

But the question never came.  Smokescreen looked even more entertained. "You lost to a _Vehicon?_   Oh man!  Looooser!" 

"It was more than just _one,"_ Knock Out snapped, hands on his hips as he glared.  But his eyes fixed speculatively on Smokescreen's wrist.  The Phase Shifter. His favorite of the much sought after relics, the one that let bullets fly harmlessly through the user, or let the wearer walk through walls . . . He didn't let his gaze linger on it, just filed its presence away in his mind.  "Can we just get going?"

"You're pretty pushy for a prisoner," Smokescreen said.  He didn't seem bothered by it, though;  he had the air of someone who would be twirling his gun, if said gun wasn't built directly into his arm.  "And where am I supposed to be taking you?"

"To a med bay, for a preference. Before I bleed out."  This was an exaggeration, but not as much of one as Knock Out would have wished.

"Yeah, you're pretty thrashed.  Okay, champ.  I can dump you on Ratchet, I guess.  Hands in the air, start walking."

Why his hands should be in the air was not clear to the medic, but he raised them anyway and took a few steps in the direction Smokescreen had gestured. A thin ribbon of spilled energon threaded across the landscape in front of him . . . his own.  He frowned, partly calculating how much he had lost, partly because of the backtracking.

"Why this way?"

There was a clang as Smokescreen whacked the back of his head with his gun arm, probably scraping the one spot that had avoided battle damage. 

"Don't be so mouthy.  I know what I'm doing, okay?"  There was a hint of defensiveness in those words, but just a hint.  "Anyway," he said after a moment, "you can't open a ground bridge just anywhere in these hills."

Knock Out grunted.  How well he knew.

So.  Smokescreen actually intended to take him back to his base.  Knock Out hadn't expected that;  he had speculated that Team Prime would mutter uncomfortable protests and then patch him up in the field after he promised them some tantalizing intel.  Starscream, to his certain knowledge, had made such a deal no fewer than three times.  Well, the third time he had actually faked the Autobots out and robbed them blind, but still.

If he was transported to the Autobots' actual base, though . . . that would have great potential for _gathering_ information, which in turn would be a good way to buy Lord Megatron's forgiveness when all this came to light (because with apologies to his liege, survival came first).  Hmm, it would be harder to escape, though.  But then again—the Phase Shifter.  Yes, that was the plan: get patched up, steal the Phase Shifter, and stroll away to find the _Nemesis._

 _If it's up there,_ a tiny, irritating voice in his head whispered.  _If. Don't forget those Vehicons._

Knock Out frowned, first at nothing in particular, then behind him.   He never forgot a paint job, and he'd never seen Smokescreen's before—primarily gold, with white rolling up the hood and over the roof, and then deep purple for the trim and the number "83" screaming from either door.  But was that so strange?  Smokescreen had changed his paint before—maybe he was just a modder at spark.

"Do you know who I am?" Knock Out asked abruptly, still walking.  Not with an arrogant sneer, as he'd had occasion to ask it in times past, but as an actual, honest question.

Gold-and-white-Smokescreen's footsteps stopped and Knock Out turned to look at him, his arms still raised and his hands half-curled.  The Autobot was staring at him.  "Uh . . . yeah?  You're Doc Knock.  The Decepticon's medical guy." 

Knock Out closed his optics a moment as he experienced an actual, unnerving surge of gratitude towards Smokescreen.

"'Course, you look different.  Like you just rolled out of a junkyard, for one thing," Smokescreen added.

Knock Out opened his optics, observed the Autobot's perfect, gleaming finish, and went right back to hating him.  He swiveled on his heel, and if it hurt when he stomped, so what?

"You Deceptigoons are so slagging weird," Smokescreen laughed. 

Someday, _someday_ Knock Out was going to dissect this Autobot's processor and see if he had a glitch that prevented him from saying "Decepticon." De-cep-ti-con, it wasn't hard. 

"Hey."  The gun prodded him in the back.  "Hey.  Do you believe in destiny?"

"No." Why couldn't Smokescreen let him ache in peace?  "Do _you?_   Let me guess; you do.  You check your horoscope every day." 

"Ha ha, no!  I mean, no, I don't believe in fortune-telling, that's just junk.  But that's not _destiny,"_ the Autobot said with a surge of youthful confidence in his voice.  "Me, I'm meant for great things.  I've always known it.  Prime and the others . . ." His voice trailed away for a minute.  "They don't get it.  They think I'm just a kid or whatever. Just some dumb rookie."  (Knock Out tactfully refrained from sharing his own opinion.)  "But I'm going to show them.  And it's not like I'm sitting around waiting for it to happen, right?  I've been training hard, with blasters, grenades, everything—"

"Mm-hmm," Knock Out said, letting the Autobot's words wash over him. They were nearing the rock formation where he and Bumblebee had briefly taken shelter; he could see the black blaster scars all over it. His audio receptors strained for the sound of gunfire, but there was nothing.  Either Bumblebee had escaped or the Vehicons had killed the scout and returned to the mine.

And what to do with that knowledge?  The Autobots would want to know what became of their scout; that made the information valuable, a possible bargaining chip for his freedom.  Except . . . they would be angry if he held back too long, particularly if Bumblebee leaked to death in the rocks in the meantime. If he told them now, would they be grateful enough to let him go later?  Maybe, maybe not.  Autobots had strange and inexplicable notions of obligation . . . And—another consideration—if he told Smokescreen, would the cocksure Autobot run off to fight the remaining Vehicons?  If he died it would put Knock Out in a tight spot.  He really needed that med bay.

Hmm, how did Starscream make such decisions?  This was really more his area of expertise . . .

"HEY, are you listening to me?"  Smokescreen jabbed his back with the gun.  "Arms in the _air,_ 'Con."

Knock Out sighed as he lifted his arms again.  Energon trickled sluggishly from one wrist joint and a few fingers. "Of course I was listening," he said, trying to repress the boredom in his voice.  "You were talking about your destiny."

"That's right." Smokescreen relaxed, though his gun didn't lower.  "Hey, stop.  This is the spot." 

Knock Out obliged, once again eyeing the Phase Shifter on Smokescreen's wrist as the Autobot spoke into the comm link built into his right arm.  "Hey Ratchet, need a ground bridge, mmkay?  I'm transmitting the coordinates now."

"Finally," Knock Out muttered.  He waited expectantly for a blue-green portal to appear.

"Hands in the air," Smokescreen reminded him again. "Cool.  There it is."

"What?  Where?"  Knock Out wondered if the Autobot was talking about something else.

"There."  Smokescreen absently balanced the muzzle of his gun on Knock Out's scuffed, black neck guard, angled between the yellow shoulder struts and one of the tires hanging off his back.  With his other hand, he pointed.

Knock Out followed his finger and glimpsed a speck of glowing green in the distance.  The _far_ distance.

 _"That_ is your ground bridge."  It wasn't quite a question and it wasn't quite a statement and there was a tremor of anger in it.  _"That._   A mile away.  _Where we started from."_

"Yeah."  Smokescreen sounded totally unperturbed.  "Not a mile, though.  More like a mile and a half."

Knock Out couldn't even find words.  After a minute of silence, the Autobot continued.

"Anyway.  Yeah.  Everyone at base is always talking about Optimus _this_ and Optimus _that._   Optimus is the strongest leader, Optimus is the best shot, Optimus has offed the most Decepticons . . ."

The blaster slid up against Knock Out's neck, angling to dig under the edge of his helm.

"But the thing is, I just need a _chance,_ you know?  To prove myself."  The blaster jabbed and scraped against his neck for emphasis.  "I'm really glad I found you.  You'll be a big help."

The medic stood silently with upraised hands (three claws snapped off, his hands glowing with dribbles of energon) and a cool circle of metal pressed against the underside of his jaw.  He eased towards the protocols needed to activate his saw and drill, knowing he couldn't be fast enough.

"I surrendered," the medic ground out. 

"Well, that made it easier for me, huh?  Not that I couldn't have taken you anyway.  Like I said, I've been practicing.  So, check it out.  The ground bridge is a mile and a half away.  That's not so far for you, right?  Looks like you decided to try out a car mode."

Smokescreen stretched out a finger and spun one of the yellow-rimmed wheels. He didn't react when Knock Out jerked his shoulder away.

"If you reach the 'bridge, you can consider yourself an Autobot prisoner.  If you don't . . . well, I'd try _real hard_ to reach it if I were you.  Oh, and you get a ten second head start.  Usually I make it five, but you're already all scrapped up, so."

Knock Out stared at the pinpoint of green fire gleaming in the twilight like a fallen star.  His eyes shifted sideways to glare at the Autobot; voice rising, his body jerked with all the furious, sweeping gestures he didn't dare make.  "I'm unarmed. _Unarmed._ You said you'd help me!"

Smokescreen smiled, shadows falling over his face in the dusk.

"Sorry, champ."  Red optics met red optics.  "I lied."


	5. Trouble Is a Friend

You got a fast car,  
I want a ticket to anywhere.  
Maybe we make a deal,  
Maybe together we can get somewhere.  
Any place is better, starting at zero got nothing to lose,  
Maybe we'll make something; me myself I got nothing to prove.

\- Tracy Chapman, "Fast Car"

* * *

Bumblebee's attempts to fix his comm link were stymied by the fact that, according to his diagnostics, it was in perfect working order. He wished he could say the same about the rest of him. In addition to his injured leg, he'd taken some painful hits to his shoulder and side. Being forced to scramble through a narrow crevice and scale a steep slope to escape the Vehicons had done nothing to soothe his injuries. Thank goodness none of his pursuers had been aerials. Even so, their search persisted far too long for Bumblebee's taste. He vented a sigh of relief when the Vehicons finally gave up.

Now the Autobot sat on the plateau of a sweeping butte, futilely trying to raise anything other than static on his supposedly totally functional communications system.

"Well, maybe I can _walk_ back to base," he reasoned. "How far could it be?" He pulled up his geographic analysis tools and found the answer was "over 1,000 earth miles away." Well, slag.

Bumblebee tilted his yellow and black head in thought, then searched his datafiles for the nearest human military base instead. And there! In Rapid City there was a National Guard recruitment center sharing a building with the Department of Motor Vehicles; maybe not quite the army base that he'd been hoping for, but still . . . From there he might be able to get word to Special Agent Fowler. And it was only 70 miles away. He could make that, right? Right?

There was one way to find out. Bumblebee pushed himself to his feet, full of determination, and began climbing down the butte. Fortunately this side wasn't as steep.

As he reached the bottom, the tension was suddenly back in his shoulders. As his eyebrows lowered in suspicion, his optics telescoped in on the glint of metal from across the canyon. He zoomed in and gave an involuntary warble of relief. Smokescreen! And he had taken Knock Out prisoner! Bumblebee felt a surge of pride for the rookie of Team Prime.

"Smokescreen! Hey, over here!" he beeped, but his fellow Autobot was too far away to hear and Bumblebee's comm link, naturally, was still spitting static.

The yellow and black scout was too excited to be annoyed. He hobbled towards the two mechs as fast as he could (which was to say not very fast). Knock Out had his hands raised in surrender—Bumblebee recognized the gesture from the human "crime dramas" that Jack sometimes watched—but he knew firsthand how dangerous and, well, _deceptive_ Decepticons could be. Especially this one. "Cover me" indeed!

Now if only Smokescreen kept his attention on the 'Con; he was sometimes a little distractable. Ultra Magnus would undoubtedly be raising his eyebrows in that oh-so-expressive way of his when he saw that the rookie had had yet another change of paint. Oh well . . . let the 'bot have his simple pleasures. He was a hero today as far as Bumblebee was concerned. But he did wish he'd keep a closer eye on his prisoner . . . The scout tensed as Knock Out lowered his arms, rubbing them, but Smokescreen gestured with his blaster and the 'Con raised them again.

"Just keep an eye on him, just wait for me to get over there," Bumblebee was muttering when his attention was drawn to a flare of light in his peripheral vision. He zoomed back to get a better look and pinpoint the source.

A ground bridge! It was far away, but there was no mistaking that glow. Could it be Decepticons? Bumblebee's eyebrows rose in dismay. _"Smokescreen!"_

For a moment he thought his friend had heard him. The little stick figure that was Smokescreen gestured towards the ground bridge with one of his little stick limbs, then turned back to his prisoner with a movement Bumblebee could barely discern.

For a moment the two distant mechs were still, barely visible in the last shreds of sunset. Their fading, spindled shadows echoed the shapes of the spires of rock towering above.

One of the shadows broke apart and deformed, and the moment was broken. Knock Out had transformed.

It was not graceful by any standards; Knock Out simply fell forward, landing heavily in car mode. Dust clouded around his rear wheels until his treads caught, and then he was careening away. The red sports car looped widely around Smokescreen, obviously setting his sights on the distant ground bridge.

Bumblebee brought out his stingers out of habit, though he knew he was too far away to engage. As for Smokescreen, Team Prime's rookie member stood there for a few seconds, gazing after the enemy. With an uncharacteristic calmness, he raised his blaster, steadied his wrist on his other arm, and fired three well-timed laser-bursts. None of them struck home, but the Decepticon was forced into a sharp skid to avoid them.

As Knock Out struggled to regain control, Smokescreen rolled into a showy somersault that ended with his transformation into his vehicular form. His headlights flared to life, modified highbeams that poured out a blaze of blue-white light, his engine revved, and two stripes of burning rubber on the ground marked his starting point as he raced across the canyon.

Knock Out must have seen him, _had_ to have seen him, a blur of white and gold pulling up fast. Pebbles and boulders grew crisp black shadows that lengthened, then shrank, then disappeared as Smokescreen's headlights cut across them in the dimming twilight. The blue-white glare fanned around the Decepticon, picking out every scar and scrape on his frame in harsh relief. Knock Out's headlights remained off—broken or damaged, perhaps—and so his own shadow, perpetually flowing in front of him, was a narrow ribbon of darkness cutting across a floodplain of light.

No matter how the Decepticon swerved, Smokescreen dogged his treads, tailgating aggressively. The pitch of Knock Out's motor rose from a roar to a whine as he demanded more power, more speed, but his pursuer wasn't just a muscle car, he was a _racing_ car, Primus only knew where Smokescreen had found one but he had, and there was really no question who was faster. As Bumblebee half-limped, half-trotted across the valley, more excited than scared now, he wondered why the Decepticon bothered.

And just as he was thinking this, Knock Out _unfolded,_ automotive parts bristling outward before sliding into place. The Decepticon channeled all the momentum of his transformation into one bounding leap. His shadow evaporated. And for just a fraction of a second, Smokescreen's high-beams illuminated the boulder rushing towards Smokescreen's windshield.

There was a scream of metal and the light from Smokescreen's headlights disappeared.

Bumblebee stood in stunned silence a moment before breaking into a lumbering run. His optics whirled, trying to adjust to the sudden lack of light. All that remained of the sunset was a smear of purple on the horizon, and greenish afterimages hung on his view-screen anywhere Smokescreen's headlights had recently flooded.

_This is all my fault, I stood back watching like a glitch, should've known he wasn't ready—_

He was about to charge up to the boulder when something moved. He sensed something, a figure pushing itself slowly off the ground.

It was not Smokescreen.

The scout quietly pressed himself into the shadows and brought out his stingers. Even this close, it was hard to get a bead. Knock Out's red chassis, so flamboyant in daylight, now bled into the darkness; only a faint highlight across his shoulders and down his side separated him from the backdrop of monolithic rocks. Just a sliver of his face was visible from this angle, his faceplate pale, smooth, ghostly, and utterly dominated by the red eyes that burned out from the shadow beneath his helm.

"Heh. Not bad, 'Con. Not a bad trick."

Smokescreen. Bumblebee's systems surged with relief. Knock Out tensed up.

"See, I'm learning stuff, just like I wanted. Yeah, not bad."

Two rings of glowing red searched the shadows as the Decepticon moved in a slow, tight circle. A circular saw extended from one wrist, and quiet _ka-chuk ka-chuk_ noises ground from his other as he tried to transform it as well.

"But you forgot something, bud. You forgot I had _this!"_ Smokescreen leapt out of the rocks—not out from behind the rocks, but literally _out_ of them in a shimmer of light—and gave Knock Out a close up view of the Phase Shifter as he punched him solidly in the gut. The Decepticon folded; Smokescreen immediately followed up with a kick that sent Knock Out skidding backwards.

The 'Con rolled with the blow and started scrambling up, but the white and gold Autobot was already there, slamming his foot into Knock Out's back. Bumblebee felt a thrill of both shock and satisfaction jolt through his circuits as the Decepticon crumpled. He quietly began to circle around the edge of the clearing, ready to help Smokescreen but unwilling to distract him.

"You 'Cons. You're so dumb." Smokescreen drew his foot back and slammed it down again. The noise Knock Out made was muffled and pained. Bumblebee began to move a little faster. He was coming 'round behind Smokescreen now, could see the Autobot's heel grinding down and the Decepticon's claws and pedes scraping futilely at the soil.

"Like, what's your deal with this dumpy planet?" The heel lifted and fell, slam. Knock Out's entire body jerked and Bumblebee thought he could hear him faintly offering promises of "deal" and "training", but Smokescreen kept talking right over him.

"Cybertron, that's what it's all about." Slam. "Optimus is just as bad, it's always blah blah blah _Earth,_ blah blah blah _Eaaaarth!"_   Slam. "Hey, are you listening to me? I know you're still online."

Bumblebee stared, aghast, as Smokescreen pulled the Decepticon up by the arm and shook him. He was nowhere sure that Knock Out was online. He was not even sure he was alive. Smokescreen dropped the medic, pinning down the Decepticon's wrist with one foot and his shoulder with the other as he leaned down to grip the car door integrated into his arm.

"I know you're faking," Smokescreen said. The metal creaked and gave by degrees as he hauled at it. But the Decepticon's body remained limp and his optics dark, even after the metal hinges gave with a snap.

"Huh, guess you really are out." Smokescreen sounded disappointed as he tossed the crumpled piece of metal aside. His left arm split apart to form his blaster. "You weren't much of a challenge, champ. Oh well."

Bumblebee remained hidden, frozen, watching his friend casually rolled the Decepticon's body over with his foot. _Smokescreen, what are you doing? But we're at war . . . They're the enemy . . . But like this?? What you just did . . . But we're at war . . ._

Smokescreen's blaster was aimed at the medic's neck now and Bumblebee still wasn't doing anything, just watching, compressed into stillness between the unbearable pressures of _this is my friend_ and _this is wrong._ Smokescreen adjusted his position as the blaster warmed up and for the first time Bumblebee saw the satisfied smile on his face and the gleam of his red eyes.

Red eyes . . .

As though in a dream, Bumblebee raised his stingers and fired. Two crackles of energy slammed into Smokescreen's arm.

"What the—?" Smokescreen swung around and the charge that he had intended for Knock Out sizzled harmlessly into the dirt.

"Smokescreen . . . I'm sorry, I just—"

"Oh, I'll _make you_ sorry, Decepti-scum!"

Bumblebee's body once again reacted before his processor could catch up; he ran as Smokescreen opened fire.

"That's right, run! I _needed_ some more target practice!"

Oh Primus. Bumblebee darted around a large rock formation, only to find Smokescreen stepping out from the solid rock, a telltale energy shimmer coating his body. Bumblebee raised his stingers as he backed away.

"Smokescreen! I'm not a Decepticon, I'm your friend! What's wrong with you?"

"There's something wrong with _you_ if you think I'm buying that lame story, Decepti-dope! Or should I say Decepti-freak? What's wrong with your voicebox, freak?"

Bumblebee's eyebrows drew down, but he kept his vocalizations—his _voice—_ calm. "There's something—" He experienced a moment of horror as he stumbled backwards over Knock Out's body, but made himself keep talking. "There's something wrong with you. I'm taking you to Ratchet. He'll help you."

"I DON'T . . . NEED . . . HELP!!" He didn't even see Smokescreen throw the punch, just felt himself rebound painfully off the rocks. Bumblebee stared up in a daze as his teammate, his _friend_ stood above him, eyes glowing wildly. "I'm the _best_ of the Autobots, got it??" His ventilations were coming fast and shallow as he aimed his weapon. "And I'm going to prove it, tonight, when I bring back the heads of two Deceptic-kkkk-KKKKKKK—"

Backing away, Bumblebee pressed against the canyon wall as Smokescreen's mouth locked in a static-filled scream. Electricity crackled and writhed over his frame until the white and gold Autobot crashed forward in a heap.

And there behind him was Knock Out, staring down at the fallen mech, the broken halves of his staff still crackling in his hands.

"Guess what, 'champ'?" The Decepticon fell upon him like a bird of prey; Smokescreen's attempts to crawl away were curtailed by two massive doses of electricity delivered to his neck and his back. _"I lied too."_

"G-get off of him!" Bumblebee demanded, cringing as his friend howled and curled in on himself in pain. His stingers trembled as he aimed them at the Decepticon. "He's sick! Malfunctioning!"

"Well then." Knock Out grabbed Smokescreen by the neck and stumbled backwards until he was standing. He slammed the Autobot against the cliff face, grabbing for his wrist. "Good thing there's a doctor in the hous—" He was cut off abruptly as both 'bots fell into the cliff.

Bumblebee jumped towards the spot where they'd been standing, then stopped, at a loss. There was no sign of the bots. With trembling servos, he picked up the two lengths of staff that Knock Out had dropped.

And there they were again, swinging out of the rocky face, Knock Out with his claws locked around the Phase Shifter on Smokescreen's wrist, Smokescreen trying to maneuver his gun-arm at such an impossibly close range, both of them wheeling around and around in a crazy dance, legs sliding through stones and shrubs as they tried to push each other off balance. Bumblebee started forward, not knowing what to do or who to help, just knowing that he had to do _something—_ he, too, grabbed for the Phase Shifter—

And with one glance towards him, Knock Out plucked half his staff out of Bumblebee's hand, twirled it in his long fingers, and jammed it into Smokescreen's shoulder joint, shoving backwards.

Bumblebee spun into, through the rocks, shuddered and cried when the electricity danced down Smokescreen's arm, but he was drowned out by Smokescreen, who screamed as his arm went numb and went on screaming as Knock Out forcibly ripped the Phase Shifter off his wrist.

Bumblebee fought back panic as he found himself trapped in the suddenly very solid rocks. His lower arms were free, but not his elbows; one leg was free, but it wasn't going anywhere without the rest of him. Beside him (tangled up _with_ him?) Smokescreen's chassis creaked as he strained and lunged. His head and arms, protruding from the stone, resembled a very strange hunting trophy.

"Well, well, well." Knock Out regarded him with barely concealed satisfaction and a hand on his hip. "Turnabout, as they say, is fair play."

"You slagging piece of glitched up GARBAGE! I'm going to—"

"Temper, temper." Knock Out attached the Phase Shifter to his own armor, then looked at Bumblebee, optics narrowed. Studying.

"Come on," he said at last, gripping the scout's arm and pulling him free. He grabbed the stunned Autobot and pulled him a few steps before his hand ghosted right through Bumblebee's wrist.

"Scrap." Knock Out looked annoyed at finding himself half immersed in the ground, and took a good minute to struggle to the surface. He took off the Phase Shifter and flipped it towards Bumblebee. "You take it. I can't concentrate."

Bumblebee just managed not to fumble the catch, but it was a near thing. Knock Out was strolling away, or at least doing as much of an approximation of a stroll as he could with energon dripping from his back, one arm pulled tight against his side, and a slight hunch of his chest. After a few meters he stopped, looked back, and held his hand out expectantly. Bumblebee stood dumbly, wondering if he wanted a handshake or what.

"My staff," Knock Out said in a Primus-what-fools-these-Autobots-be voice.

Silently, Bumblebee handed him the other half of his broken weapon. Knock Out started to slot both pieces into some unseen crevice on his back, thought better of it, and tucked them under his arm instead. He started his not-quite-a-stroll again and somehow Bumblebee found himself trailing him. Behind them Smokescreen's curses rang out into the night.

"I _could've_ cut his throat," Knock Out said after a few minutes, "but I thought it might upset your delicate Autobot sensibilities. I hope you appreciate that."

Somehow that broke the spell. Bumblebee grabbed the Decepticon's arm and swung him around, not caring that the 'Con snarled in pain. "You hope that I _appreciate_ it?!" Bumblebee's beeps shrieked to the higher octaves in fury. "What the scrap did you do to him, you monster?"

Knock Out wrenched away from him. "What did I do to him? What did _I—"_ He stabbed a finger at his chest. "—do to _him?"_ The finger scythed in the direction of the distant Smokescreen. "Are you serious??"

"You did SOMETHING—reprogrammed him or injected a virus—"

"Oh yes, silly me, I forgot!" Knock Out threw his arms towards the heavens. "I worked my nasty _Decepticon voodoo_ on him so that he'd try to _kill me!_ Or did you forget that part?!"

"It would serve you right!" Bumblebee shrieked, getting up in his face. "You know what I didn't forget? I didn't forget you trying to offline Bulkhead and kidnapping humans and shoving me off a cliff—"

"Shoving you? _Shoving_ you? Are you talking about that time you chased me—repeat, _you_ chased _me_ —in that rusted out jalopy until your inability to steer sent you over a guardrail?"

"That's NOT how it went down!"

"And if we're airing past grievances, how about the time you tried to grind off my face? WITH A TRAIN."

"That was an accident!" Bumblebee said. "Also? Hilarious."

Knock Out hissed as he swiveled on his heel and stalked away. "I don't have time for this."

Bumblebee followed, standing with his arms crossed and his brows angled in a frown as he watched the medic lower himself carefully to a sitting position. Knock Out's long claws began digging into the seams of his arms and legs, popping open well-hidden compartments and prying out strips of thin, rolled metal, tiny vials, electrical tape, and even a few lengths of narrow, rubbery tubes.

"For energon drips," he said when he caught Bumblebee not-quite-looking. "Moot point since we don't have any energon."

Bumblebee wished he hadn't mentioned energon; the world swayed a little when he thought about it. He opted to sit down. A reasonable distance away from the treacherous Decepticon, of course.

Knock Out tore a length of the silvery foil off and patched up his side. After a few narrow glances at Bumblebee, he ripped off another strip and waved it in the Autobot's direction. It was a great deal shorter than the strip Knock Out had used. Bumblebee took it anyway and applied it to his leaking leg. Meanwhile Knock Out was awkwardly slapping patches onto his back, grimacing at the pain. "I should've done this before," he muttered irritably.

Bumblebee remained silent. He stared up at the moon. His comm link wasn't working. He very much doubted if Knock Out's comm link was working (not that that would help him anyway!). And without a ground bridge—wait a minute.

"Do you think that ' bridge is still open?"

Knock Out stopped wrapping electrical tape over the sensors of his injured, door-less arm to stare at him blankly.

"The one you were trying to get to when Smokescreen . . . you know."

Knock Out returned his attention to the strips of black tape.

"I don't think," he said, "that I ever want to see what's on the other side of that one."

And that was all he would say on the matter.


	6. Physician, Heal Thyself

Made a wrong turn once or twice,  
Dug my way out, blood and fire.  
Bad decisions? That's all right;  
Welcome to my silly life.  
        -Pink

* * *

It didn't take long for the Autobot to start proposing _plans._   True to his function, they all involved a great deal of sneaking, scouting, and crawling through the dirt.  Knock Out coldly vetoed all of them.

"If you wouldn't mind dropping the 'action hero' routine for an astrosecond, you might notice that we're still injured, still low on energon, and still in hostile territory." He stopped dabbing sealant into his broken fingertips long enough to give the Autobot a _look._ "Tell me, Bumblebee, which of those factors makes stumbling around in the dark seem like a good idea?"

"But we have to do something!"

"Like recharging, hmmm?  Or would you rather collapse from exhaustion?"

"Oh, great idea.  What difference will that make when we starve to death?"

"We won't starve to death," Knock Out said irritably.  "The worst we'll have to cope with is disorientation, slower auto-repair, and stupid Autobots.  Oh wait, no, only I have to deal with that last one.  Lucky me."

"But you said it yourself, we're low on energon!"  The Autobot froze in the middle of an impatient motion, his optics whirring in sudden determination.  "Energon.  The _energon mine._ I'll sneak in there and—"

"Bumblebee."  Knock Out rolled his optics. "That is, without question, the most _idiotic_ scheme you've advanced to date. You're injured, you're tired, and you're in no condition to take on a battalion of Vehicons."

"If you backed me up—"

"Ha!  Did you catch that?  Let me repeat it.  HA!"

"But we have to—"

"No. NO, we don't." Knock Out's patience, thin at the best of times, gave out completely as he stabbed a claw at the Autobot.  "We don't have to crawl through organic muck, play special ops, or tiptoe past Vehicon drones, so stop your blathering!  I don't want to hear it!  Shut up, shut down, and rest up!"

Bumblebee's eyebrows dropped into a glare as he stepped forward. "I'm not taking orders from a _Decepticon!"_

"Then take them from a _doctor!"_   They stared daggers at each other.

Bumblebee broke the deadlock first, leaning back with a little electronic slurr of laughter.  _"_ You sound just like Ratchet."

Knock Out recoiled, truly offended. "I most certainly do  _not."_

Bumblebee's eyeridges tilted upwards in amusement as he sat down.  "Sorry, but you do."

"Hrmph.  That rusty old hack."  Knock Out settled against the rocks opposite the Autobot, who had fallen into sudden, thoughtful silent.

"Where do you think we are?"

Knock Out snorted and replied curtly, "Watch more Earth movies." Bumblebee just kept looking at him, his static face unreadable but his body language uncertain, uncomfortable. The medic glared at him. "What now?"

"Nothing."

"Well then."  The medic pointedly closed his eyes.

"I was thinking," Bumblebee said after a space, "about that Vehicon . . ."

"What Vehicon?"

"The last one."

Knock Out opened one eye.  "Call me slow, but that doesn't exactly narrow down _which_ of the hundred or so identical bots you're referring to."

"The last one before the two ground bridges . . . did that weird thing they did."  There was a hint of desperation in his voice as he regarded Knock Out's perplexed expression.  _"The one that you . . ."_ He let the sentence hang.

"Oh, the mercy case."  Knock Out leaned back.  "What about it?"

"The . . . what?"

"The—" He reminded himself who he was talking to.  "The drone who fired the missile."

"Yeah." Bumblebee lifted his head.  "You killed him."

"That's one way of looking at it."  Knock Out ignored the accusatory tone, choosing instead to examine the jagged edge where the tip of his middle finger had broken off.  "And factually correct, certainly."

Bumblebee said nothing.  He said it loudly.

Knock Out tossed the subject away with a flick of his fingers.  "So? What do you care?"

"What do I _care?"_ Somehow Bumblebee made it sound like the craziest question in the world, like he couldn't understand how Knock Out could even ask.  "Because . . . because I had to hide there . . . not moving . . . while I listened to a cold-blooded murder!"

The Decepticon's optics snapped wide, then narrowed to slits.  "It wasn't murder."

"Then what was it?"

Knock Out gave a disdainful snort.  He knew better than to try to explain the duties of a Decepticon medic to an Autobot.  "Go to sleep.  I promise I won't snuff your spark while you recharge.  That's what you're _really_ worried about, aren't you?" 

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Good. Me neither."

"But that doesn't mean I trust you." The black and yellow scout blended in with the darkness, but Knock Out could tell when he turned his gaze to the sky by the shift of his optics.  "Why did you pull me out of that boulder?"

Knock Out's processor kicked into overdrive as he searched for an answer that would satisfy an idealistic Autobot.

"Well, you helped _me,"_ he hedged. That might or might not have been true;  at any rate, it was a logical hypothesis—oh scrap, now he was sounding like Shockwave—a LIKELY OCCURENCE, seeing as he had fallen unconscious with Smokescreen trying to stomp through his spine and had awakened to find the two Autobots facing off.  "So I returned the favor out of, er . . . appreciation."

The two blue spotlights dropped to gaze at him.  Knock Out made an irritable gesture, as though to ward them off.  Naturally this had no effect whatsoever.

"Besides which . . ."  Knock Out polished a little spot on his leg, then stopped when the edges of his broken fingers scraped at the little remaining paint.  He frowned at the damage.  "A-hem.  Besides which, you have ranged weapons and I don't. Which makes you an asset."

Strangely, this answer seemed to satisfy the Autobot.  He heard Bumblebee's joints relax with an audible creak as he leaned back.  "So. What's the plan?"

Knock Out paused a moment while the scout's words sank in.  "I'll tell you tomorrow."

"You don't have one, do you?"

"Go to sleep, Autobot."  He watched the blue optics dim down before closing his own eyes.

* * *

Just because a Decepticon's eyes are closed does not mean he's offline.

Knock Out waited a good half hour before slowly standing, trying not to let his joints creak as he reached for the two halves of his energon prod.  His optics searched until they identified Bumblebee, barely more than an outline in the darkness.  Tomorrow he would let himself be convinced of the feasibility of raiding the energon mine;  it was not a bad plan.  But that was tomorrow. 

A channel of starry sky glimmered above the cliffs as Knock Out spidered his fingers along the rock face, letting the embankment guide his path. Rounding out into the open, the desert valley spread in front of him.  The spangle of stars was brighter out here, gilding the towering rocks with silver.  Invisible organics hid in the shadows somewhere, everywhere, chirping a continuous chorus that was almost metallic.  From the far distance came the faint, familiar rumble of cars and trucks trundling along the Human highways.

Knock Out drank it all in before turning his attention to his more immediate surroundings.  He poked at boulders with his staff, scuffed at the ground with his pede, and finally settled himself on a low, flat stone.  His optics dimmed slightly as he began running his internal diagnostics.  First things first.  What hurt?

Knock Out did not enjoy pain, at least not in the first-person.  Still, it was undeniably useful, the body's way of saying, "Hey, patch me up!" or "Get out of here!"  He had dulled and ignored the signals as much as he could (not nearly as effectively as he could have wished!), and now he winced as a flood of feedback surged in from his back struts and spinal column.  He would have cracked plating and crushed circuitry to deal with once he finally found a med bay. 

On the bright side, his auto-repair had started patching what it could and the numbness that had so worried him had receded to an ache.  He cycled rapidly through the rest of his systems.  Phantom pain where Smokescreen (presumably) had wrenched the door-plate from his arm.  Tolerable.  Aches in his upper leg, minor.  But his right side gave him the occasional flash of agony that made him instinctively clamp his arm down over it, although he couldn't find any wounds.

 _Well, not bad,_ he thought, _considering.  No transforming for a while, however.  Now let's see how we can help that auto-repair along, shall we?_

The Decepticon stood up, carefully testing each of his joints and noting the aches, pains, and any limitations to his normal range of motion.  Settling back on the boulder, he took the head-end of his staff and convinced it (after whacking it against the rock a few times) to generate a gentle blue glow.  He worked the broken end into a crevice.  It wobbled, but did not fall over. 

Then he tended to supplies, popping one compartment open after another—the ones in his arms, his legs, all of them—and plucking out nearly every carefully catalogued tool, bandage, and narcotic.  Pulling his right foot onto his knee, he loosened a few screws and bolts, mentally rerouted the energon flow elsewhere, and calmly detached the triangular pede that made up the front of his foot.

Some mechs found this kind of repair distasteful or even repugnant, involving, as it did, a sort of self-disassembly;  it was one thing to have a limb blasted off in battle, but to willingly unscrew the screws, unbolt the bolts, and pull apart the casing _yourself_ . . . Well, it made a Cybertronian seem a little too similar to a mindless machine, a collection of random parts like a datapad or a computer. 

Knock Out vaguely remembered a time when he too would have felt a swell of nausea at having to separate his hand or leg for repair.  But he had been a medic for a long time, and gradually he _had_ come to see Cybertronians as collections of parts.  To identify and replace the malfunctioning components, that was a medic's main function.  He was sure even Ratchet, the Autobots' medic, would agree.

Autobot medics . . . Knock Out closed his eyes for an instant before coaxing the grey, triangular cover off his pede to reveal the interior workings.  There had been a time when medics had banded together in common field hospitals on the great Cybertronian battlefields—Decepticons medics, Autobot medics, even some Neutrals in the early days.  It made sense. They all used the same equipment. They all had the same requirements.  They all knew people working for "the other side", and probably still went out drinking with them after work.  They belonged to the profession first; they were medics. 

But even then, there had been differences.  Autobot medics were cowardly; if a patient was mortally injured, the Autobot medics would administer some basic aid before hurrying on to a more viable case.  They busied themselves with the living, turned away from the dying, and just . . . let them die.  Whereas Decepticon medics stepped up and _helped_ them die. 

_(Knock Out finished digging out the rocks and loose dirt that had been clogging the gears and began reassembling his pede. The first bolts slid in smoothly, aided by a new sheen of grease.  He pulled up his left foot and started the same process all over again.)_

And, yes, it meant making choices and, yes, maybe _some_ mechs wondered afterwards if they had made the right ones, if that was the kind of mech they were.  But that was what being a medic was _about_.  And anyway, it got easier as time went by.  You found the rhythm—of the battlefield, of the medical base, of the cargo-bots rushing in with new supplies—and you looked down at the energon-splattered mech at your feet and you _decided._ And moved on.

Oh, that didn't mean new questions didn't crop up.  For example:  an unconscious 'Con comes in, missing his leg and a good chunk of his torso—in danger, but not necessarily a mortality. What should a medic to do? Shove him off to the side until there's time to tend him, focusing on the patients most likely to survive?  But if you—that mech—were juggling three other severely injured patients, and if you knew the unconscious mech had the parts they needed, and if you knew he  _might_ die anyway . . .

_(He reattached his left pede and wiggled it.  A perfect fit.)_

The first time he was faced with that choice, Knock Out had hesitated and finally left the unconscious Decepticon's fate in Primus' capable and ethereal hands, concentrating on the other three bots. 

All four mechs had died.

Red Alert had dragged him out that night—in this context "out" meant "on the far side of a rusty hill, just out of sight of the battle field and the field hospital", there was really nowhere else to go—and they had gotten spectacularly drunk on high-grade energon filched from the officers' quarters.  Knock Out scraped up his paint when he tripped face-first down the hill but was too juiced up to notice, and he couldn't understand why Red kept laughing at him.  Tensions were already mounting between Autobot medics and Decepticons medics then—mostly in the form of dirty looks between factions and harassment of the few remaining Neutrals to "pick a damn side already"—but he and Red Alert had always gotten along.  Yes, she was a craven Autobot who wasted precious supplies on the dying, but by Primus, she was a craven Autobot who could really hold her booze and always had your back.

 _(He flexed his transformation circuits, but his right-hand buzzsaw still wouldn't come out,_ (ka-chuck ka-chuck). _Ahhh, there now . . . the handle of the saw was bent where it attached to his wrist.  He pried his arm casing outward, flipped the saw out, and began straightening the supports.)_

He couldn't remember telling the Autobot medic about his little . . . dilemma. He couldn't remember much about that night, to be honest. But he did remember her response.

"K.O.," she said, "We're soldiers too.  And just like the ones out there—" She pointed towards the battlefield. "—we do what we have to. Find what you can live with and never look back.  Keep your chin up, Shiny Hiney."

That was the last time he'd spoken with Red Alert.  Not long afterwards—and it was funny, when you thought about Red's "soldier" remark—Lord Megatron decreed that all his medics would undergo weapons training so that they could double as infantry as the need arose.   The Decepticon medics had been upset, complaining bitterly that the Decepticon High Command undervalued anyone who didn't tote a gun and predicting (correctly, it turned out) that the "need would arise" for their participation in almost every battle.

But the Autobot medics . . . the Autobot medics hadn't been upset, they'd been _furious._  It was a betrayal of medical ethics, they said.  You can't you shoot them up one day and patch them up the next, they said.  What they expected the Decepticon medical staff to do was unclear—defy direct orders from Lord Megatron?  desert en masse?—but whatever the case, the little interfactional favors and deals that had gone on for so long—"Two rolls of sterile foil for a gallon of medical-grade energon, and if you put an IV in that 'Bot then I'll cauterize the wound on that 'Con"—came to an abrupt end. 

Knock Out's scalpels were replaced with industrial grade buzzsaws, and he survived his first infantry battle thanks to dumb luck and familiarity with his electro-staff.  He'd long practiced with it—ostensibly in case he had to break apart an out-of-control gestalt for repair, and in truth because he knew he looked fabulous with blue bolts of lightning reflecting in his highly polished paint.  He hotly denied the rumored third reason, that he was a lousy shot.  Actually, he was a perfectly average shot for the amount of practice he put in at the shooting range, which was precisely none.

_(He flipped his buzzsaw for his hand a few times with perfect ease. The only thing left was to fix his left arm;  he couldn't bend it all the way at the elbow. The casing had partially shattered and a shard of it was buried in the inner workings.)_

The other medics—Splint, Trauma, and the rest—were not so lucky.  They had no familiarity with melee weapons, and so were issued laser-rifles, almost at the last minute.  The Autobot infantry seemed to take 'Cons with laser-rifles rather more seriously than a 'Con with a stick.  Each time Knock Out came back from battle, there were fewer Decepticon medics to go around.  And each time the Autobot and Decepticon field hospitals—plural now—were further apart.

_(Removing the circular joint guards (custom built, black with a yellow rim to match his tires), the medic worked the cracked casing off his upper arm. A tangles of cables and energon conduits ran under the skeletal scaffolding.  He bent his arm.  He couldn't see the obstruction, but he could feel it.  Gripping his knee to keep his arm steady, he probed gently at the bundled wires, his fingertips slid into their midst.)_

By the battle of Tyger Pax, the two camps were on the opposite sides of the field, so that the Autobot medics looked no larger than turbo-ants as they scurried through the ash and smoke to examine their incoming patients and casualties.

He didn't have to see them, though, to know that the Autobots were still wasting increasing scarce medical supplies on the doomed and dying.  It made Knock Out crazy.   But all he could do, as Red Alert said, was find what he could live with. 

He practically fell on the next borderline case that came in, his buzzsaws whining before the orderlies even set down the stretcher.  The patient ended up in four pieces, Knock Out's beautiful finish was splattered with energon, and four severely injured Decepticons survived his ruthlessly efficient transplant operations.  (One was Breakdown, although he wouldn't learn his name until much later;  he was just "the big blue head wound" at the time.)  One Decepticon dead and four alive by his hand.  And Knock Out found he could live with that.

_(The two broken fingertips on his right hand, only an inconvenience before, now proved a genuine problem.  The ragged metal caught and snagged on the the cables and tubes. He dug deeper. If he could just catch the shrapnel between his first two fingers . . . )_

The battles became easier, too . . . easier than patching up wave after wave of injured troopers, now assisted only by Hook and a few orderlies whose names he no longer bothered to learn.  To dig his buzzsaw into an enemy's chest, to drop an Autobot with an energon burst to the knee . . . it was so simple, so straightforward, so _satisfying._  

_(Okay, there.  He had the damn thing.  Awkward as slag, pinned between the sides of his fingers instead of the tips, but whatever.  Now to draw it back, sloooowly, caaaaarefully, working it through the cables—)_

He wondered why the Autobot medics had objected.  They were already in a war, weren't they?  They were already effecting its outcome, weren't they?  And it wasn't sooo different from surgery.  All you had to do was think of your opponent as a collection of parts . . .

* * *

The past dissolved in a terrifying instant as the deep blare of a truck's horn blasted from the highway. Terrified that Optimus Prime would bear down on him from the darkness, Knock Out's hand jerked.

Pain seared through his arm, but that it was nothing compared to his rising panic as a wash of blue liquid burbled merrily out of the mass of cables. The Prime didn't show up, but he could hardly have made the situation much worse.

"Oh scrap oh scrap oh scrap—"  Instinctively he unclenched his fingers from the shard of metal _, the Pit-bound shard of metal,_ and jerked his fingers out of the cables.  He'd severed a line, _he'd severed an actual energon line,_ a major conduit!  And the flood of blue continued, and _would_ continue, until it ran out—

"Calm down, calm dooown," he hissed to himself.   "You're a medic." 

He concentrated on his internal systems, rerouting what he could.  It wouldn't stop the flow, but it would buy him some time, a few minutes maybe.  And then—no help for it—his claws gleamed in the flickering light for an instant before he began tearing through the cabling.  It hurt, Primus but it hurt, and feeling his left hand numb up, watching it go limp as he clawed out the cables, that was a special kind of terror.  But it was an intellectual terror, the kind he could shove into the back of his mind and think about later.  His face was calm and his eyes steady as his fingers found one end of the severed conduit.  He jerked it—oh yes, _that_ hurt—and pulled enough tubing out of the mess of wires to attach a clamp.  It still took him a minute, since he had to wrestle the clamp onto the surging energon vein with a single hand.  Energon continued to ooze determinedly from the doubled-over tube, but at a much slower rate.

Now he had to contain the other end of the conduit . . . but he couldn't seem to get hold of the Pit-bound thing!  Every time his claws dug through the cables, he shredded a bit more of the delicate rubber conduit, and if Breakdown were here he'd be able to DO this thing, and what was the big lug thinking when he let himself DIE?!

Calm.  Caaalm.  He was calm.  He drew his hand back and let it hover until it had stopped shaking.  Then with one swift movement, he let his thumb and forefinger drop down, catch the tubing, and draw it out.  His conscious mind watched with critical interest as his fingers danced, performing a flawless one-handed knot without seeming to need any kind of mental direction.  But he had to tell himself to run his diagnostics.  He added a clamp to the rubber knot for security while he waited for the results.

And there they were, popping up on his internal display.  And he—well now.  He was going to die.

He kept staring at the display, vaguely aware of the outside world layered behind it.  _Really?  A half hour till I run out of energon?  It's going to end like THIS?_   Something rebelled in his spark, now consumed not with fear but anger.  His feet dug into the soil as he sat up straighter. The energon pooled around him rippled gently. _No.  That's stupid. SENSELESS. Worse than the Terrorcons! I refuse._

_I refuse._

_I refuse._

_I refuse to die._

He closed his fingers tightly over the line that was still oozing precious energon, and he knew that no one cared how much he refused, it was still going to happen.

_I don't slagging BELIEVE this. Over one idiotic mistake!!  Damn, damn, damn it, why didn't I agree to go on the Autobot's stupid energon raid instead?!_

_The Autobot . . ._

_The Autobot._

Knock Out encouraged his reputation as a ghoul; it kept the Vehicons from cluttering up his med bay. However, even an avowed scavenger had limits and taboos. But anything, _anything_ was better than dying.  What was the Autobot but a collection of parts?  And wasn't one of those parts a tank of energon?

He grabbed the end of his staff from the crevice and the soft, calm light was replaced by crackles of lightning.  _All right.  First, shock and drop. Then drop the staff, bring out the buzzsaw. Start carving. Energon for all.  By which I mean me._

He staggered to his feet, praying to whatever gods might be listening that Bumblebee was still in recharge;  with one functional arm and waves of dizziness already crashing over him, the element of surprise was all Knock Out had.  He gathered his strength and—he wanted to leap around the corner to relieve the tension in his spark, but that would be foolhardy—he _crept_ around the curving rock wall.

The licks of blue lightning illuminated his face in fits and starts as he stared.  At a canyon full of nothing.

Knock Out leaned against the rocky wall, his laughter echoing crazily as he slid down to his knees.

Bumblebee was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this ended up being longer than I expected. I hope the formatting wasn't too bothersome for the flashbacks, I wanted something that wasn't too cumbersome but I'm not sure if I achieved it.
> 
> [Red Alert](http://tfwiki.net/wiki/Red_Alert_\(Animated\)) is based on [the background character by the name](http://tfwiki.net/wiki/Red_Alert_\(Animated\)) from Transformers Animated.
> 
> The Decepticons will be showing up--soon. :)


	7. Trouble Is a Foe

You torched a Saab like a pile of leaves,  
I'd gone to find some better wheels.  
Four, five meters, coming round the bend  
When the government agents surround you again.

If dying young won't change your mind,  
Baby, baby, baby, baby, right on time.

\- "Diane Young", Vampire Weekend

* * *

Just because an Autobot's optics have darkened does not mean he's offline.

For almost a half hour Bumblebee leaned motionless against the cliff, waiting, and his patience and suspicion were rewarded when he heard a subtle creak of metal and a faint scraping of dirt. He kept his frame relaxed, head slumped sideways and hands curled casually in his lap, but internally he tensed in anticipation, prepared to come out swinging at the slightest sign of trouble. If the Decepticon attacked, he would be ready.

But the 'Con didn't. The faint stirring of the breeze and quiet footfalls told him that Knock Out had slipped past him. To minimize the light output, the Autobot expanded his mechanical pupils until they were as wide as they would go before bringing his optics online. He barely caught sight of the Decepticon's shadow sliding around the base of the cliff, out of sight.

Bumblebee counted to ten, rolled to his feet with only the faintest whirr, and followed. The shadows clung to his new paint job as he flanked the stones. He wasn't worried about being caught; he was a superb scout, and that was just a polite term for "spy." Besides, he had to know what the Decepticon was up to. Faking recharge and sneaking around—what was he scheming? Maybe he had the means of contacting the Decepticon ship after all, or maybe he was putting together some secret weapon, or maybe . . . well, that was all 'Bee could come up with right off the rotator cuff, but he was sure there were other possibilities.

He was more perplexed than relieved when Knock Out simply stretched his joints and sat down on a rock. The Autobot raised his stingers when Knock Out picked up the pronged half of his weapon, but the medic only jammed the staff among the rocks as an impromptu torch. Bumblebee finally lowered his stingers as the 'Con began his repairs.

It was off-putting, watching Knock Out pull off his pede, but 'Bee had seen it done before in more dire situations. Never so casually, though. Ratchet usually applied a local anesthetic before disconnecting anything from a bot, but the lack of it didn't seem to cause Knock Out any pain. There he sat, his pede nestled in the palm of his hand, loosening the casing with an absurdly tiny screwdriver pinched between two fingers. The glowing energon prod cast a halo—no, scratch that, not a halo, it was more like a _cascade_ of illumination. The blue light poured down the craggy rocks and formed a small pool that the Decepticon leaned into as he worked. It was strange seeing him without a smirk or a sneer, his features set in a blank sort of intentness. Like Ratchet, losing himself in his work late at night in an empty lab when he thought everyone else was in recharge.

Somehow the similarity was more disturbing than earlier, when Knock Out was merely yelling. As the Decepticon finished with one foot and started on the other, Bumblebee quietly withdrew. He started walking.

The night was still, but there were signs of life. A deer grazing on a ridge raised her head with a jerk, barely looking at the Autobot before she disappeared over the far side of the hill in one flowing bound. Moths bumped and fluttered against his head, drawn by the glow of his eyes. He waved them off, brushing away as gently as possible the ones bold enough to land on his faceplate. He felt a little bit honored when their wings beat softly against his fingers and a little bit sad whenever a bat swirled past to snatch one from the air. Earth was a beautiful place, but everything was prey here.

Not that Cybertron had been such a peaceful place either. It had scraplets, ready to chew bots into scrap metal. It had astro-ticks, which sucked energon and spread disease. It had Decepticons . . .

Suddenly, something on his left—glowing eyes. He swirled into a battle stance, then straightened in embarrassment. It was a dog.

At least, he thought that's what it was. Of all Earth species, dogs had proven the hardest for Bumblebee to consistently recognize. There were so many variations. They were as small as a human's hand, they came up to a human's waist; their fur was smooth, fluffy, curly, non-existent; they were as stocky as Bulkhead or as sleek as Arcee or shaped like sausages, all long and skinny.

 _This_ dog-creature had triangular ears that swiveled, now pinned back against its head, now standing erect; a wet black nose that snuffed the air; a sandy-scruffy coat; and a bushy tail hanging down to its hocks. All traits Bumblebee had seen many times on many dogs as he rolled through Jasper. And yet . . . and _yet_ . . .

It watched him with a lowered head and a lolling, feral grin, its eyes wary and glowing . . . not in a Cybertronian I-have-backlit-optics way, but in a flaring, alien, Earthen way that turned the entire eye, pupil and all, into a yellow blaze. When Bumblebee turned on the headlights built into his chest, the creature drifted effortlessly to the edge of the shadows and its eyes burned out of its triangular face like miniature suns.

"I don't have time to help you," said Bumblebee, who knew that dogs belonged with people. The dog, if that's what it was, just watched him. Its ears twitched backwards and suddenly it lifted its narrow muzzle skyward and loosed a shrill crescendo of howls and yaps that made a tremor prickle through the scout's circuitry. An answering chorus floated from the surrounding hills. The not-dog (no dog ever made a sound like that) gave him one last silent, curious, contemptuous look and coasted into the night.

Bumblebee looked after it, trying to slow the spinning of his spark deep in his chest. "Okay, now you're getting all worked up over Earth creatures. Earth creatures that don't even come up to your knee. Get it together, Bumblebee. You're wasting time, you're putting things off." He paused. "You know what you need to do."

What he need to do, of course, was find Smokescreen. Maybe his fellow Autobot would be his enemy and maybe he would be his friend, but either way Bumblebee still had the Phase Shifter. He could help Smokescreen or demand answers, whichever the situation called for. Just as soon as he found him.

Fortunately (in a manner of speaking) Bumblebee and Knock Out had left a trail of energon as they had staggered through the valley. And though the energon had long since lost its glow and evaporated, a scout could still discern the faint stains and blotches blending into the rocks, if he was good enough and careful enough. And Bumblebee had _always_ been good.

And careful? Well, not so much. There had been a time when he was downright cocky, exuberant and young and sure he was immortal, but the war had ground that out of him. He didn't like to think about his capture on the battlefield of Tyger Pax and the ensuing, brutal interrogation by Megatron . . . the hand crushing his throat slowly, ever so slowly, and the torture that had left him, in purely statistical terms, more than half dead. A field medic had saved him (and he only pretended not to know who it was because Ratchet seemed to prefer it that way), brought him back from the brink, and fixed him up. All but his voicebox.

Bumblebee had recovered his spirits quickly, because it was his nature and because it was a way to spite Megatron. But although he was still cheerful and courageous, he was no longer cocksure. Perhaps that was why the brash and overconfident Smokescreen simultaneously annoyed, worried, and amused him. Perhaps that was why he had always known, deep in his spark, that he was going to sneak back to the imprisoned Autobot rookie.

Perhaps that was why his spark sank so dramatically when he found Smokescreen snarling impatience at the Vehicons chipping him out of the rock.

"Primus, could you _be_ any slower? Is there, like, a PRIZE for the biggest slacker or something? Hurry up!"

"Yes, sir. We're trying our best, sir," one of the Vehicons said anxiously, giving a sort of half-bow.

"Well, your best isn't good enough!" Smokescreen pointed accusingly at the Vehicon, his red eyes glaring. The Vehicons had managed to free most of his left arm and were now working on his chest, chipping away with chisels, regular old chisels. Probably too dangerous to Smokescreen to use energy chippers. "If Optimus comes looking for me, I'm making sure YOU go down FIRST."

This sent a quiver through the amassed drones, who pressed closer and worked faster.

From the shadows, Bumblebee stared at them bleakly. From the moment Knock Out's superior sneer ( _"I_ am a Decepticon officer") had met with a barrage of Vehicon gunfire, he'd known something was wrong. But Bumblebee had hoped, prayed, that it was some elaborate Decepticon trick. Starscream or some other Decepticon could have turned the Vehicons against Knock Out (everyone knew the 'Cons were constantly in-fighting), and Knock Out himself could have used Smokescreen as a guinea pig for a new type of synthetic energon that effected his personality and his optics. That was what Bumblebee had stubbornly repeated to himself over and over again.

A small application of paint, so sloppily stenciled that its form was not immediately recognizable, was all it took to crush his hopes. Each Vehicon had a tiny white insignia, hardly lighter than their sky-blue bodies, spray painted on one shoulder. The Autobot insignia.

An Autobot insignia on a Vehicon, a mine that hadn't blown up, and a cruel parody of Smokescreen.

"Toto, we aren't in Kansas anymore," Bumblebee muttered, then immediately hated himself for reducing the situation to that.

Somehow he found himself walking back across the plains, his feet leading him without requiring conscious direction. He felt like the top of his head was opening towards the stars, like his thoughts were winding away on the Milky Way. How could this happen? How could he get back? What would Team Prime do without him? What would _he_ do without _them?_

There was energon on this Other Earth; the mine proved that. And the Phase Shifter was still rattling around inside his arm compartment. Acquiring fuel would not be a problem for the foreseeable future. Ha . . . the foreseeable future. The rest of his life. Scavenging fuel from Autobot Vehicons and crazy Autobots . . . _No,_ he refused to let that be his future. He was going to get back. He WAS. Even if it took help from a Decepticon.

Decepticons were untrustworthy, but they weren't stupid. Never had the flaws and vagaries of the caste system been so apparent as when Megatron had aggressively recruited from the "lower" classes—resulting in an influx of engineers and mechanics into the Decepticon ranks. As a result, Decepticons built the best weapons. Decepticons constructed the most powerful warships. Decepticons had the best tech. And Knock Out was a Decepticon _and_ a medic; that was _sort of_ like an engineer, right? After all, Ratchet was the ground bridge expert on Team Prime; it only made sense that Knock Out would be the one on Team 'Con. Or would that be "Team Megatron"?

 _And he's probably just as desperate to get back,_ Bumblebee thought, _if only to fix his paint. He's not going to blow away "an asset."_

Now if only Knock Out would forget about the Phase Shifter. Why the Decepticon had thrown it to him he didn't know—an attempt to gain his trust, perhaps, or simply a bad decision on the part of an injured and groggy mech. Whatever the case, it was an Autobot relic and Bumblebee felt no obligation to return it; but the situation would be that much more peaceful if the medic didn't ask . . .

Bumblebee's steps slowed again as he once more waved away the moths eagerly circling around his eyes. The cloud of insects swirled around the metal digits passing through their midst, forming living eddies. Some of them flittered back towards his glowing optics, undeterred, while others flew away in the night, towards other tantalizing sources of light—the moon, the distant streetlamps on the highway, the shimmering . . . pool of . . . electric blue energon . . .

Bumblebee broke into a run.

The medic was hunched against the rocks, curled sideways a little. He was unconscious, or maybe dead, Bumblebee couldn't tell which. There was energon everywhere, splashed on the medic, the rocks, the ground, and a dabbled stream of it clearly marked where Knock Out had stumbled around the cliff. A faint buzz of wings accompanied Bumblebee's frantic search for a wound, as night bugs swarmed around and died in the glowing liquid. A flight of them surged towards him as he turned on his headlights.

The scout pulled back in revulsion when he saw Knock Out's arm, half the casing gone, a section of wire and cable gutted out, and energon sloshing freely in the remaining superstructure. Something must have attacked him, or . . . suicide? No, no time to think about that, it didn't matter. The tubes had been knotted and clamped, like Ratchet had taught them "just in case," but how much fluid had the Decepticon lost? A lot, judging by the landscape.

The scout stared helplessly at a drop of energon hanging sluggishly off one of the severed conduits; nothing in his basic first aid training had prepared him for a situation like this, literally kneeling in a pool of energon, watching someone die. Bumblebee took the Decepticon by the shoulders and shook him gently, then not so gently. He nearly dropped Knock Out in surprise when the Decepticon's vocalizer gave a short, meaningless burst of static. He took this as a sign to shake the medic harder.

The static morphed into something closer to words—they sounded a little like "stop" and "fragger"—and a shapeless splotch of red flickered across his optics. Bumblebee hastily knocked a small flask of energon out of his leg compartment (a scout is always prepared) and pressed Knock Out's fingers around it. It took a third bout of shaking and the support of the 'Con's uninjured arm before he could actually get Knock Out to drink.

The medic swallowed the energon in frantic gulps, his eyes flashing blindly before reforming their usual round, red irises. He stared at Bumblebee uncomprehendingly.

"Don't move, you're hurt," the Autobot said quickly.

"I noticed. I'm a doctor." He managed to make the words drip with sarcasm, despite the low volume and slurred syllables.

"Yes, I know that. Just . . . tell me what to do. I'll help you."

The Decepticon didn't answer, just dropped his head to the side to examine his injured arm. He grimaced and his eyes flickered, light-dark, light-dark.

"Knock Out. Did you hear me? I can help."

"No. You could've helped a half hour ago. By being here," the Decepticon hissed, thrusting his face close as his audio crackled. "Now it's too late. You understand, Autobot? _Too late."_ His head dropped back against the cliff with a clang, but his irises dropped sideways to eye the flask still clenched in his fist. "Idiooot . . ." His optics darkened as his speech trailed away.

Bumblebee backed away on his knees and tore himself away from the sight. He stepped out into the open, half-aware that he was leaving glowing blue footprints, half-aware that his headlights were still on. He raised his wrist to his faceplate, with a vague idea of calling Ratchet, even though he _couldn't_ call Ratchet, but he had to _try—_

He froze. Something was buzzing, something other than insects. The high and distant buzz of a plane. It sounded suspiciously familiar.

Like a jet. An F-16 jet . . .

Bumblebee looked over his shoulder. He had no doubt what Knock Out would do if their positions were reversed. He was a Decepticon.

Bumblebee . . . was not. He lifted his stingers towards the moon and lit up the sky.

The F-16 swung in a broad circle around the flares as the Autobot fired.

Missiles screamed as it returned the favor.


	8. Dancing in the Dark

"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.

"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat. "We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."

"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.

"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."

\- Lewis Carroll, _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_

* * *

There had been a time when the Autobots and the Decepticons had existed in an uneasy stalemate.  The Autobots had as their advantage a certain ruthlessness and a complete disregard for any morals or ethics that they deemed inconvenient.  The Decepticons had flight. 

Oh yes, the Autobots certainly took potshots at the Decepticon jets and occasionally might bring down one of the Citizens, but in general the skies provided safety.  That was before the Autobots started arming themselves with a barrage of anti-aircraft weapons, long-range scanners, jammers—everything and anything that could accurately target or disable a flier.  Suddenly the biggest advantage of flight was that it could facilitate a hasty retreat from an Autobot menace.

That was why Decepticons patrolled at such high altitudes.  That was why Starscream and Soundwave did not immediately spot the Autobot.

"It's not that I object to your hobby," Starscream was saying in her haughtiest, sniffiest voice, "but surely you could create some . . . _pets_ . . . that require less exercise."  She glanced at her system display as Soundwave sent her a file—the Decepticons' patrol schedule.  "Yes, I know we'd be flying in any case, but I could do without having to wrangle your _menagerie_ . . . Speaking of which, where'd the gold one go?"

Soundwave slowed, scanning for Buzzsaw, the twin to bird-like Laserbeak. Laserbeak, at least, was gliding sedately alongside the two jets.  Soundwave angled his flight to point out Buzzsaw's location with his wing. 

"Well, get her back up here, it's dangerous to—oh REALLY NOW."  Starscream stared in disapproval as Laserbeak took this as a cue to mischievously divebomb Buzzsaw.  They swooped around each other, tumbling and play-fighting in mid-air. 

Silent though he usually was, Soundwave had his own mysterious way of communicating with his creations.  He sent some unheard message and robotic birds rose quickly to rejoin the jets.

"Hmph, that's more like it," Starscream said, yawing to the left.  "Let's get back on our flight path before we hit a Human airplane or— what's that down there?  Energon."  Starscream's already clipped accents became sharper still.  "Soundwave.  Send Laserbeak."

The bird-like mini-con dropped towards the ground while less experienced Buzzsaw continued to circle with the jets.  Moments later Soundwave was relaying information from Laserbeak, insistent pings about the chemical composition of the energon along with video footage—though in the dark this last proved hard to decipher. 

Suddenly, two swaths of light cut across the darkness below.  They were not at car-level.

"Continue monitoring Laserbeak and hold your flight pattern," Starscream said shortly.  She peeled off to investigate.  The spy-bird's video feed continued to broadcast, the color values changing as it tried to adjust for the darkness.  It showed a mech with hands and legs stained with energon, two lit headlights built into his chest—

"Starscream." 

Soundwave's voice was calm, but Starscream still felt startled to hear him vocalize. A rarity these days. 

"Yes?" the F-16 asked tensely.

"Yellowjacket."

The Air Commander was speechless for a moment.  "You aren't seriously suggesting . . . Soundwave, you must be confused. You know it could not _possibly_ be him."

Soundwave's answer came in the form of a screenshot from Laserbeak's feed.  The glare from the grounder's headlights cut across the picture, revealing the bot's colors to be black and yellow with an elaborate, mouthless facemask.  An Autobot insignia was worked into the metal of his waist.

Starscream dumped the picture off her display as sudden flares of blue fire blossomed from the ground. Enemy fire . . . though woefully ill-aimed. Banking in a wide circle, she searched for movement and found her target.  Two missiles streaked towards the ground. 

The mech below heard them coming and broke into a run;  the shockwave of the blast caught him, knocking him off his feet with such force that his body left a furrow in the rocky soil as he rolled.  He struggled back to his feet, swayed for a moment, and then, with a resounding clang, fell over and lay still. A wave of surprise rolled over Starscream.  With all their hijacked tech, Autobots were usually better defended and harder to take down than that.  She frowned, taking a moment to answer the questioning pings raining down from Soundwave.

"Enemy down, but it may be a trap," the Air Commander commed tersely.  Should she order him to keep circling? No, he'd be safer with her. "Land, but proceed with caution."  She followed her own advice, transforming in mid-air and activating her thrusters just before she hit the ground.  Carefully, cautiously, she glided towards the downed bot—easily located since Laserbeak was circling around and around above him, like a mechanical buzzard.  The Autobot's optics and headlights had both gone dark.  Nevertheless, Starscream kept both null rays fixed on him, not looking away even when she heard Soundwave landing beside her.

"It defies logic, Soundwave, but it would seem you were correct . . . It is, in fact, Yellowjacket."  Starscream frowned, circling around the body so that she and Soundwave would be on opposite sides of their enemy.  he leaned to study the Autobot as she spoke.  "I think we need to look for another source for this . . ."  Her mouth pursed in disgust as she glanced around the cyan-streaked landscape. " . . . disturbing abundance of energon.  Perhaps this wretched Autobot decided to torment a Vehicon for his amusement, or—"

Soundwave held up one thin, midnight blue finger in forestallment, then pointed off to the side.  Half-hidden in the shadows of a narrow channel of rocks, the still form of a mech was half-sitting, half-lying in a shallow pool of energon.

"Soundwave!  You might have said something sooner.  All right, all right," she said impatiently as the silent Decepticon raised his hands in a gesture of protest.  "You didn't see him before—I believe you.  Watch Yellowjacket while I check on the other one. Do you have stasis cuffs? Good."

It was surprisingly difficult to get a look at the Cybertronian in the narrow canyon.  The energon washing around him cast a glow up his legs, up the metal arch of his fingers on the hand that was half-submerged (but not the one that was curled against his stomach, held in place by the forward hunch of his body), but the light was dim and only made the rest of his body seem darker by comparison.  His helm was so far forward that it was almost touching his knees.  Starscream could tell, at the very least, that he was neither a Vehicon nor a Citizen.  This Cybertronian had a name, though she had a feeling no one would ever hear it again. With pity in her eyes and a gentle touch, she cupped her hand under the white enamel of his faceplate and lifted his chin.

A very faint burst of static buzzed from the damaged mech's vocalizer.  That was only one of the reasons that Starscream drew her hand back in surprise.  She stood quickly, her body unfolding from her crouch.

"Soundwave, contact the _Heretic_ and inform Lord Megatron of the situation. With his approval, we shall be transporting two prisoners onto the ship.  And we also require the assistance . . ." Her gaze fell to the still form at her feet.  ". . . of the good doctor."

* * *

After Soundwave hailed the ship, he and Starscream carried the incapacitated Cybertronian into the open, laying the dark red mech beside the black and yellow one, but with enough distance between them that the medics would be able to work effectively.  As Starscream flicked stray droplets of energon off her claws, a ground bridge flared and three Cybertronians strode out, led by a cyan mech carrying a med-kit in one hand.  The jet-bots behind him were both pearly white, one trimmed in purple and one in green, carrying several clear bags of medical grade energon and a collapsible stand between them. Soundwave had been emphatic on that point; plenty of energon was required.

Starscream turned to greet the new arrivals, or rather to greet their leader.  "Ah, Knockdown."

"Commander Starscream."  The cyan mech nodded in greeting;  he was easily a head shorter than her, with black highlights on his wings and chest.  His tone was characteristically calm, but Starscream saw his brow lower a fraction as his blue eyes drifted over the energon drying on the ground.  He cast a glance at the two white jets behind him, gestured sharply towards the injured red mech with two fingers, and watched his aides rush forward to start assessing the damage and stabilizing the patient. 

"That _is_ the severely damaged one you spoke of, yes?" Knockdown queried as he set down his toolbox and popped the clasps.

"Correct, Doctor.  The other one is stable.  Though you would do well to keep your guard up around both." 

"So they're hostile."

"One is.  The other, we do not know yet."

"Hmm."  Knockdown's glance went from casual to piercing as he looked over to see his med-bots staring motionless at the injured patient, frozen in fascination or disbelief.  "Ampule!  Jumpstart!" he snapped, his calm evaporated. "What are you _doing?_   Waiting for him to bleed out?"

"Sorry, sir!"

"Won't happen again, it's just that—It won't happen again!"

Knockdown shook his head as they began to set up a rough IV drip.  "My apologies, Air Commander.  If I'd known they'd lose focus at the sight of a little spilled energon . . ."

"A little, doctor?" Starscream asked drily.

"Well."  Knockdown's circular blue irises flicked over the surrounding area again.  "They've seen worse, at any rate."

"So say we all.  But don't be too hard on them." She moved over to the injured red Cybertronian as the medic followed.  "Take a good look at your patient and tell me if you've ever seen anything like _that_ before."

It was a testament to Knockdown's unflappable nature that he merely stared down at the face that exactly mirrored his own, albeit under a red helm rather than a blue one.  But it was a measure of his shock that his expressionless stare lasted a good minute.

"No," he said at last.  "I can't say I have ever come across this exact . . . situation."

"I take it, from your reaction, that this is not merely a relation who dropped in for a visit?  A brother?  A cousin?"

"No.  My molds are unique."  The slightest touch of arrogance in that statement, but a simple fact too.

"Well.  He's certainly very like you."

"He's a grounder," Knockdown noted, his wings twitching as he tapped one of the bot's headlights.

"Nevertheless."

Knockdown didn't answer, instead examining the unconscious bot, fingers pressing against the neck to catch the pulse before inspecting the injured arm.  Jumpstart and Ampule had patched up the severed energon line with a field job—patchy, leaking a little around the ends, but serviceable—and the IV drip snaked fresh energon down to the bot's fuel conduits.  The two white jets lingered, full of nervous tension, until Knockdown nodded his approval and shooed them towards the yellow and black mech with a gesture.

Starscream stopped them with a piercing look.  "Wait."

The two junior medics paused, exchanging glances with each other, then looking between their Air Commander and their Chief Medical Officer.  Technically speaking, the medics should have had their own independent chain of command—and for the most part they did.  But no one had objected when Starscream had swept them under her wing as part of her armada, on the grounds that they were all jets.  Knockdown, unambitious in his own right, had not seemed to care, and Starscream was careful only to issue orders that the CMO would be willing to follow, or that he would have come up with on his own. 

Most of the time.

He was looking silently at her now, politely but with his mouth thinned a little more than usual. Apparently he did not like being given direction in medical matters.  Too bad for him.

"It might spare your assistants another shock," Starscream said—a subtle reminder that Knockdown's staff had room for improvement, "to know that the mech in question appears to be Yellowjacket."

Surprisingly, this got more of a reaction from Knockdown than the discovery of his double; his helm actually gave a little jerk.  "But he's offline.  Dead."

"So we thought.  And yet . . . here we are."  Starscream's claws hooked comfortably behind her back as she strolled over to the black and yellow mech.  "No need to hesitate. He's in stasis cuffs."

Knockdown didn't wait for his juniors to conduct the preliminary examination this time;  he dropped down on his heels to take a closer look. 

Jumpstart dared to break into the conversation as he hovered.  "Could he maybe be a zombie or—?"  He broke off, quailing beneath the combined stares of the officers.

"You two.  Contact Trauma, tell him to prepare for two incoming patients."

"We, ah, we already did, sir."

"Then check the perimeter."  Knockdown waved a hand outward.

"For what, sir?" Ampule asked, her voice uncertain.

"Anything!  Go."  They went. Knockdown allowed himself a slight roll of his optics.  "Young bots . . . spare me," he muttered, but his eyes were back on the injured patient in front of him.  He lifted a scorched arm, turning it slightly to test the joint.  Still functional. 

He leaned back on his heels.  "This is ridiculous. I examined his corpse _myself."_   There was a thin edge of pique beneath the coolness.  He touched the metal plate covering the unconscious bot's mouth as though to assure himself it was real, then pressed his fingers to the neck for a pulse. His voice dropped to a murmur. "And yet here he is . . . alive."

 _"Is_ he, doctor?"

The cyan medic looked up quickly, brow furrowed.  Starscream continued pacing on her thin legs.

"Oh, he's _alive,_ of course.  But is it Yellowjacket in front of us?  Or . . . merely a bot who _looks_ a good deal like him?"  She stopped, swung to face him, and now she was standing over the body of the little red mech.

Knockdown's optics flicked from his mysterious red doppelganger to the black and yellow mech.  "I ran a field autopsy on him.   On Yellowjacket.  Once I get back to the ship and access them, I can compare—"

"As fortune would have it, I have a copy of your notes.  Soundwave was able to retrieve them from the ship's dataweb."  She made the file available, waiting for his system to claim it rather than sending it over.  A little salve for their minor clash.

"Hmm."

Starscream watched as the medic's hands moved, skillfully separating the two halves of the yellow bot's chestplate and leaning close to study his hardware. His face was thoughtful when he at last pushed the panels closed, his hands remaining on them for a few seconds before he pushed off them to stand up. 

"You were right, Commander."  (Starscream smiled at the honorific.)  "He's similar—almost identical—but only almost.  This isn't the same bot."  He dusted off his knees.  "This isn't Yellowjacket."

"I assume you're referring to more than a change of paint."

He didn't answer, just looked slightly insulted.

"Forgive me."  She waved away the previous question.  "Any opinions, doctor?"

"If you ask me . . ." Knockdown didn't continue until his flicking optics had located Soundwave, waiting at the edge of the ground bridge.  He still leaned closer and lowered his voice. "If you ask _me,_ Shockwave's been hiding things from us."

Air Commander Starscream's eyes narrowed slightly. "So say we all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm sure you're wondering "Why female Starscream?" Well, I was at work the other day idly thinking about two things--first, what Shattered Glass Starscream's personality should be like, second how seldom you see older female characters filling the "old wise warrior" archetype (like Kup, Ratchet, etc). At some point these two ideas merged and I thought, "You know, I think SG Starscream would be a lot like Professor McGonagall—loyal, but not crawling." (Although in a lot of ways I think she turned out more like Dowager Countess on "Downton Abbey".) 
> 
> In my head, she looks pretty much the same as regular Starscream, only with better posture, more confidence, and maybe different paint. Perhaps a silver body with scarlet and gold trim? Go Gryffindor!
> 
> Knock Out's counterpart is named Knockdown because I didn't want to be typing "blue Knock Out / red Knock Out" for the entire fic. Unlike Knock Out, Knockdown's alt mode is a jet. This is totally based on [this awesome DA picture](http://kagekirite.deviantart.com/art/Shattered-Glass-Seeker-Knock-Out-332661985). (Is that not adorable?) His personality, on the other hand, is inspired by [this picture.](http://hollowgirl44.deviantart.com/art/KnockOut-and-SG-Knockout-353085253) Just because you're a good guy doesn't mean you're exuberant about it.


	9. A Widening Gyre

Memories fade,  
Like looking through a fogged mirror.  
Decisions, too—decisions are made and not bought.  
But I thought this wouldn't hurt a lot.  
I guess not.

       - MGMT

The council of officers was convened in haste, then delayed while Knockdown supervised the treatment of the _Heretic_ 's two newest patients-slash-puzzlements.  Trauma had prepared two medical pallets, each with a waiting IV drip, while the other medics were in the field, but Knockdown's scrupulous nature ("Picky," thought Trauma) meant that he was ordering changes before the stretchers were even set down.

"The yellow one in the Auxiliary," Knockdown ordered, nodding towards the room at the far end of the lab.  The doors hissed open as he swiped his hand over a pad and tapped in code.  "Red on the main palette."

"The Auxiliary? Are you sure?" Trauma was trying to catch a better look at the red mech—having heard plenty of excited radio chatter about the CMO's "twin" via Amp and Jumpstart.  "That room's so inconvenient."  In fact, it was such a pain in the thrusters to drag equipment back and forth that the Auxiliary was used only when a patient needed extra privacy to recover, or when the rest of the lab was full.

"They need to be kept separated," the cyan medic said, pulling two more bags of medical energon out of a cabinet and pushing them into Trauma's arms.  "They're going to be questioned individually."

"Indeed they are, doctor—if we are ever able to agree on what they should be asked.  A meeting which you are expected to attend, I believe."  Starscream was standing in the doorway of the medical bay, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.

"I'll be there as soon as possible, of course," Knockdown said, "as soon as I settle my patients."

"Surely they can survive for a few minutes in the capable hands of your staff."  The Air Commander gave Trauma a nod of acknowledgement.  It came with a smile—a sincere one, but with a hint of a tapping foot behind it.  "That is why you _have_ staff, doctor." She lifted a finger and waggled it scoldingly. "You don't need to try to be a one-mech show."

Knockdown gave a little huff of dissatisfaction, but after a fraction of a second he inclined his head in agreement.  But the cyan Seeker was not about to leave without aiming a rapid-fire barrage of last minute instructions at Trauma.  "IVs on both, the red one's critical but they're both low.  Clear the debris out of Red's back and douse Yellow's leg in nanites, that plating's about ready to crack." 

In the background, Starscream repressed a slight sigh in a very obviously patient manner.  Knockdown's instructions flowed even faster.  "Patchwork repairs only on Red's arm, I'll attend to that myself later.  Hmm . . . oh, and trim down those claws."

Trauma raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"Self-inflicted wound," Knockdown explained briefly.  "We don't want a repeat.  All right, that's it.  Keep them both under and—"

"'Under'?  Does that mean what I think it does?" Starscream asked.

"That depends."  Knockdown turned towards her and raised an eyebrow.  "Do you think it means 'under sedation'? If so—yes."

"Hrrrm, we'll be wanting to question them _soon,_ Knockdown.  We don't want them floating about in a drug dream."

This time Knockdown was the one to cross his arms.  "I have a responsibility to my staff, _Air_ Commander.  These mechs may be dangerous.  And even if they aren't, they'll be in pain.  I have a duty as a _medic—"_

"All right, all _right,"_ Starscream conceded.  "Your duty. I understand."  Her brows drew down in concern.  "But I will tell you frankly, doctor, that I would rather get this over with while your patients are _not_ at their best.  Lord Megatron is sure to want to question them himself and our leader can be . . ." Her blue eyes studied the ceiling as she searched for the right words.  " . . . surprisingly, mmm, _guileless_ for an ex-gladiator.  He expects the best of others—regardless of if he should.  You catch my drift?"

Knockdown uncrossed his arms to pick up a small welding torch, spinning it in his fingers.  Their beloved leader was indeed infamous for his willingness to talk with enemies, attempting to reason with them or convert them to the Decepticon cause while the rest of the Decepticon forces wrung their hands and willed him to attack his foes.  The fact that this strategy had born fruit a few times did not erase the memories of all the OTHER times, the times he'd had to repair Megatron after some Cybertronian or extraterrestrial had taken advantage of his goodwill and stabbed him in the back.  Sometimes literally. 

Megatron always laughed off the attempts to end his life, even while he was still bleeding energon.  He claimed that he was tough enough that he didn't need to worry—"Die-cast construction, Knockdown, and a gladiator's frame. They built us strong in my day."  It made Knockdown a little crazy, but he had to grudgingly admire his leader's confidence and idealism, too.

That didn't mean he couldn't stack the odds a little, though.

"Trauma—" he started, then paused to look at Starscream.  "Which one first?"

She tapped a thin metal finger on her arm thoughtfully.  "Your doppelganger, I think."

He nodded and turned back to Trauma.  "Minimal sedation on Red.  Just enough to keep him under."

"You got it, Doc."

With a final glance around his domain, Knockdown swept out after Starscream. 

* * *

Knock Out seldom dreamed, and never of the War.  His dreamed of fast cars, or of Breakdown, or of starry nights on Cybertron, or even of fighting Optimus Prime (and since they were _his_ dreams, they usually ended with Knock Out planting a triumphant foot atop the fallen Autobot leader). 

But he didn't dream of _the War._   That business with Optimus and his merry mechs didn't count.  If he ran from Team Prime—and Knock Out often did, without the least twinge of shame—they would let him go.  That wasn't war.  Wars were all about battlefields.  Once you were on a battlefield, there was nowhere to run.

But he never thought about battlefields—did not suppose he would ever be on one again—did not understand why they were seeping into his thoughts now.

_"Ampule, you take his arm—that's right.  Now lift."_

Someone had been picking bits of metal out of his back, had been doing it for some time.  He didn't know how he knew, or how long they'd been doing it.  He just felt the hands hooking under his arms, carefully turning him over.  His back felt numb again, but so did the rest of him, so he supposed it was all right.

Then someone was working on his arm.  He could dimly feel the careful turning of the casing to find a better angle, could hear the quiet click of pliers as wires were twisted and reconnected . . . Someone pressed gently on his wrist and his fingers curled of their own accord.

_"There. That'll do for now."_

_Sloppy work, lazybones,_ a part of Knock Out's mind scoffed in retort. But that part of his mind was not very loud right now.  He was back on the battlefield.  That first one.

He could never remember, later, which battle it had been.  Either a clash in the Sea of Rust or part of the on-going hostilities at Praxus.  It was funny, because the two had been in completely different areas and weeks apart—he should have been able to remember.  But it was just a vague blur.  The troop ship.  Hours of waiting, bored and terrified by turns.  Joking with the other medics to hide it.  Keeping a careful eye on Quickcut, as he sat on the edge of the transport, because his hands were trembling so badly that he'd almost shot two fellow 'Cons already. Trying to cheer him up by inviting him into the betting pool Trauma had set up—whoever shot the most Autobots would win. But no 'Cons, Knock Out reminded him. Trauma said 'Cons didn't count.

Trauma . . .

_"Primus, look at the length of 'em."_

Someone was lifting his hand, gently smoothing his fingers back.  A moment of cold pressure at the tip and a metallic snap.  It didn't hurt exactly, but he hated the sound.  He tried to protest and could only flex his fingers slightly. 

_"He's coming out of it.  Ampule."_

A pause;  the world grew fuzzier.  His fingers were smoothed out again.  Snap.  Snap. He couldn't feel the pressure this time.  He still hated the sound.

 _"Other hand."_   It was lifted.  Trauma.

He had not known Trauma all that well;  they had been friends, but not _friends,_ as far as that went.  He'd been closer to Splint and Backup.  But just like he couldn't recall the name of the battle, he couldn't remember much about those two.  They'd just fallen away from his memories;  people he'd worked with and laughed with and squabbled with up to the point where they were just gone.  

Someone was stroking his fingers again.  _"Already lost quite a few, hasn't he?"_   Snap.  Snap.

Trauma.

He had pulled Trauma's arm over his shoulder and dragged him behind the downed body of a shuttle-bot to treat him, and the air had seemed to have a substance of its own, rocking with cannon blasts from two distant gestalts, whining with laserfire. If they'd still been with their battalion, if they hadn't been cut off, then maybe—probably—Knock Out wouldn't have done it, would have stayed with the group.  But he was already lost, panicking in a maze of smoke and bullets, and Trauma was down, and he was a medic.

He remembered setting his electro-staff aside and the darting glances he kept shooting towards it, fearful he would look up and find it gone.  In later battles he would be wiser and always keep a hand on it, ready to use.  In later battles he would not stop when a comrade fell.  

But that was the first time.

 _"Scorching underneath the plating here."_   His body flinched as the tender area on his right side was examined, although the pain never actually materialized.  _"Let's see what we can do about that."_

He couldn't remember the placement or the severity of Trauma's wounds.  Did remember slapping him so hard it made his hand ache, to stop his screaming.  Did remember the streaks of energon his fingers left across Trauma's faceplate.  So he must have been losing a lot of energon.  A gut wound, maybe.

He remembered his hands flying as they explored the injury, even if he couldn't remember what or where it was. Remembered the cold terror when he realized this was beyond him. If they'd been at the field hospital, with supplies—but they weren't.  Wished for long moments that he was a cowardly Autobot who could walk away, lying with hope and promises to return, or who could drag Trauma over the battlefield until they were both gunned down and pretend it had been brave instead of stupid. Seriously considered just running away.  But he was a Decepticon, a Decepticon _medic._   You couldn't fool everyone else unless you faced the truth yourself. And how could you deny mercy to a friend, when you gave it daily to strangers?

Trauma had fought him then, scrabbling furrows down his finish as Knock Out slammed down his head and pinned it.  No chance of fooling him with sweet talk and comforting lies;  Trauma had brought plenty of mercy in his time too, and it was not always freely accepted.  Knock Out didn't blame him for the struggle, and only a little for the finish.

Knock Out didn't have any sedatives on hand.  He couldn't reach his staff.  But he did have a buzzsaw, recently installed by the weaponsmaster and still gleamingly new.  He pressed Trauma's face into the rusty soil as he thrashed and tried to bite his fingers.  He tried to soothe him; told him it was all right, it would be clean, it would be quicker than a scalpel.

That had probably turned out to be a lie;  he wasn't sure.  He couldn't remember much after that.  He had a vague recollection of an officer, a tank build, finding him—snarling about useless cannon fodder and shaking him till his denta rattled before shoving him stumbling into the fray.  And he had survived that, clearly. Even if he didn't remember how.

Mostly . . . mostly he remembered Trauma's face when he slapped him, panicked and stained with a distorted, glowing handprint.

 _"There."_   His hand was laid gently on his chest, the fingers curled in and blunted.  After a moment, it was lifted again and something cold slid around his wrist.  In his free-floating state, he barely felt his transformation subroutines fade away and grey out, as inaccessible as the moon.  _"Hardly seems necessary."_  A pat on his chestplate. _"I don't think you're going to be a threat any time soon."_

Knock Out didn't try to open his eyes.  Most definitely did not want to open his eyes.  He struggled in little fits until the fogginess pressed in on him again,  pushing him into a mercifully dreamless sleep.


	10. Whatever Remains, However Improbable

There is nothing more deceptive than a very obvious fact.  
\- Arthur Conan Doyle

* * *

The original idea behind the council table, as proposed by Dreadwing, was that it would be round, with chairs set equidistant apart to symbolize the equality between the officers. To no one's surprise, he had gotten the idea from a human book.

Starscream had pointed out that not all the officers _were_ equal, that was the whole point of having a chain of command, wasn't it? Dreadwing explained that he meant _intrinsic_ equality of a bot's inner worth.

Megatron mildly noted that he would like the table, if they did build one, to be large enough to include other interested bots, for example—the rankless crew members. Starscream mentally facepalmed, picturing the room filling up with the _teeming masses_ at every meeting.

Shockwave, ever practical, had pointed out that placing everyone equidistant would be nearly impossible, given the wildly divergent size and mass of the various officers, and when you factored in height—he had gone on to rattle off figures and used the word "logic" five times in rapid succession.

Such was the power of Dreadwing's sad, puppy-dog eyes that Shockwave concluded by conceding that, well, the notion might have _some_ merit. Logically.

So the idea was put aside for further discussion, and under normal circumstances would undoubtedly been quietly dropped, as many of Dreadwing's enthusiastic yet slightly naive plans tended to be.

And then . . . Yellowjacket killed Dreadwing, less than a week later. The remaining Decepticons, grief-stricken and guilty, agreed that the table had been a wonderful notion, and wouldn't it be nice to memorialize Dreadwing by building it—?

Unfortunately, the table really _had_ been a pretty terrible idea. The larger bots, like Megatron and Shockwave, practically had shavings scraped off their knees whenever they jammed their legs under the table, while Knockdown, one of the shortest 'Cons, dispensed with a chair altogether and just leaned against the tabletop. The Decepticon Security Director, Airachnid, was even shorter than Knockdown and distracted everyone by sitting _on_ the table or perching in a little swing of webbing stuck to the ceiling, as the mood took her. It did not exactly make the Decepticons look like a well-disciplined force.

Shockwave had been correct, of course . . . placing the chairs equidistance had proven impossible. Lord Megatron took up almost an entire side of the table (if something round could be said to have sides) all by himself. As Starscream slid into the seat immediately to the right of Megatron, the humor of the contrast was not lost on her—the gladiator's almost ridiculous bulk side by side with her lanky, stick-like frame.

"Ah, Starscream." The leader of the Decepticons turned slightly, smiling. "Late as usual?"

Starscream, known for harrying her Armada on the importance of punctuality and lecturing Skyquake on his questionable time-management, gave a half-amused, half-irritated twitch of her lips in response.

Knockdown leaned over to look around Soundwave. "My fault, I'm afraid, sir."

Megatron waved away his apology with one massive, golden arm. "No need to apologize, doctor. I'm sure you had—"

"—important medical matters that his _staff_ are handling with perfect competence," Starscream broke in. "Don't encourage him, Megatron."

Across the table, Skyquake gave a rumbling chuckle. "Doctor . . . do you remember that time you were repairing the med bay palette all by yourself—"

Starscream slid a hand over her face as Knockdown's optics half-shuttered.

"And then it collapsed—"

Airachnid inched slightly away from the F-35, as though to signify 'I'm not with him.'

"And you were stuck _all night?"_ Skyquake persisted, chuckling.

"Yes." Knockdown's cool blue eyes regarded the hulking jet over his steepled fingers. "Yes, I remember that."

"It was the funniest fragging thing I've ever seen!" Skyquake gave a deep laugh, drew back his hand to give a friendly slap on the back to the bot adjacent to him, noticed that the bot in question was Airachnid, and put his hand down rather hastily.

Soundwave tapped on the table with his finger, gaining everyone's attention. He pointed at the empty chair on Megatron's left.

"Ah, yes," Megatron said, fiddling idly with the datapad in front of him. "Shockwave may be a little late. I asked him to check on something for me."

Starscream and Knockdown exchanged a perfectly synchronized glance.

"I _do_ need to return to my patients at some point," the cyan medic said. "Staff or no."

"Then let's begin, by all means." Megatron set the datapad down, his tone serious. "Soundwave, Starscream, you made first contact with these . . . curious individuals."

"Indeed, Lord Megatron. If you would replay the footage from Laserbeak, Soundwave—thank you." A hologram flickered into view above the table, displaying the spy-bird's recording. "We spotted a rather significant amount of energon on the ground and upon investigating—"

Startled glances ricocheted around the table as the Decepticons caught their first concrete glimpse of a black and yellow mech. "Is that _Yellowjacket?_ If it is, I'm looking forward to gutting him."

Skyquake pushed out of his chair, gripping the edge of the table so hard that it began to buckle under his trembling fingers. "That's the mech . . . that killed my brother." His voice, usually so loud, was an ominous whisper, like distant thunder.

"No." Everyone looked at Knockdown. "After Commander Starscream disabled him, I examined him thoroughly. He's nearly identical, yes, in appearance and components, but he is definitely _not_ Yellowjacket."

"Maybe he's a relative," Airachnid suggested. She tapped her lips with a finger, as though she was still looking forward to gutting the bot. "A twin named, hmm, Hornet. Wasp. Waspinator. Something like that."

"Thank you, my dear, for that little bit of humor. Your sense of propriety truly knows no bounds," Starscream said drily.

"Anything to lighten the mood, Commander dear."

Skyquake was still unconsciously working his fingers into the unfortunate table. "Well, why not?" he demanded. "No reason bad guys can't have twins too. And lemme tell you, if MY twin had to die, then I say THIS JERK should join the Allspark ASAP!"

"Skyquake." Megatron reached a hand towards him, although he was too far away to reach the overwrought jet. The simple gesture was enough to make the jet frown down at the table, tracing the dents he'd left in it.

"Besides, that wouldn't exactly be equitable, two dead twins on their side and only one on our—" Airachnid caught Starscream's fixed, blazing stare and decided not to complete the sentence.

Soundwave once again tapped a single finger on the table, and because he _was_ Soundwave, everyone immediately fell silent.

"Thank you." Knockdown gave him a nod of acknowledgement. "As I was saying. This mech isn't Yellowjacket, and in my medical opinion he's no spark-split relation either. Judging by certain other findings . . ." He shuffled a few datapads with the slightest of frowns, and Starscream realized with a shock that Knockdown—Knockdown!—was actually _uncomfortable._

"Allow me to continue, Doctor." She turned towards the others, her blue eyes sweeping around the table. "After neutralizing—" She cast a withering glance at Airachnid. "— _Waspinator,_ Soundwave and I discovered a second mech. Soundwave, if you would be so good as to share some stills of the bot."

There was a moment of stunned silence as the Decepticons viewed the pictures, each image framing an energon-stained mech whose face, under his red helm, was undeniably the same narrow, triangular face as their Chief Medical Officer's.

"Slag-sucking Primus on a _stick."_ Despite the profanity, Skyquake sounded more stunned than upset. "This is for real? It's not Photoshopped?"

"No," said Starscream, correctly guessing the meaning of the human term "Photoshopped". "It— _he_ —is real."

"Wow." Airachnid opened her mouth, searching for something bitingly humorous to say, then just shook her head. Then her eyes narrowed slightly. "And these two are _on the ship,_ am I understanding this correctly? And no one thought to, oh, _inform the Security Director?_ "

"They are under guard, Airachnid." Megatron, who had been studying the images with narrowed eyes, finally spoke.

"By a bunch of medics," she grumbled. "All right, I'm just going to say it—we've got an infestation of clones."

Soundwave held up a finger and waggled it.

"I am _not_ jumping to conclusions, Soundwave. Look at the picture, then look at Doc Knock."

"Doctor." Megatron's gaze shifted from the slideshow of pictures to the cyan Seeker. "Have you had a chance to examine this . . ." He sought for the right word. "Anomaly?"

Knockdown laced his fingers together. "Cloning does seem like the most reasonable hypothesis. I took a core scrape from . . . the red one . . . and the age of his frame registers as being the same age as my own."

"'The same age as my own' . . ." Soundwave played back Knockdown's words while tilting his head questioningly.

"I know it seems counter-intuitive, but the CNA of a clone will show the same age—the _molecular_ age, you understand—as the original."

"In other words, for the both of you to have the same core age, while never having met or been aware of each other, is highly unlikely," Megatron summed up.

Knockdown nodded. "Basically."

"Sooo . . ." Airachnid hooked on of her legs around her little seat of webbing for better support and as she leaned forward over the table. _"Why_ isn't Shockwave at this meeting again? He _is_ the clone fanatic, isn't he?"

"Shockwave is researching something on that very subject for me," Megatron said gravely, raising an eyebrow as he ran a glance around the gathered mechs with understated but very present authority. "I am confident that he will have valuable contributions on this matter."

 _If he hasn't "valuably contributed" already,_ thought Starscream, looking at the picture.

"If they are clones, who made 'em?" Skyquake asked. "The Autobots?"

"The Yellowjacket lookalike has an Autobot insignia," Knockdown contributed, "although . . . that could simply be because he was cloned from an Autobot. The other has no markings of any kind."

Airachnid snorted. "Of course it's the Autobots! Who else?"

Soundwave leaned forward, replaying a clip of Starscream's voice from their patrol. "'What's that down there? . . . a disturbing abundance of energon.'"

Airachnid crossed her legs, clasping her hands around one knee. "Well, I think Tall, Dark, and Silent is right. We should be thinking about what happened as much as where these mechs came from. What's all the energon from? Were they fighting? _What_ were they fighting? Each other? Did some Autobot decide to arrange some clone cage fighting?"

"The energon was mostly from a split line in the red bot, but they both had a significant damage from laserburns, and structural instability." The medic paused. "Interestingly, someone had patched them up a bit before we arrived."

"What?" Starscream looked at him sharply. This was the first she'd heard of _that._

Knockdown nodded. "Very basic. Holo-foil and black tape on both of them. Even clamps on the severed energon lines, though that was a case of too little too late."

"Clamps. Put there by the Waspinator?" Airachnid mused.

"We are _not_ using that name," Starscream snapped.

"Coulda been the medic." Everyone looked at Skyquake. He shrugged. "I mean, the red bot. Since he's a duplicate of Doc Knock."

Knockdown allowed himself the slightest roll of the optics. "Those skills are learned, not built in."

"They could've built him to BE a medic," Skyquake stubbornly persisted. "And then trained him."

"Then why not just train a normal bot to be a medic?"

"Well . . ." Skyquake frowned at the ceiling.

There was a silence as they all pondered.

"Test cases?" Airachnid suggested. "Two small mechs . . . easy to get rid of if something goes wrong."

"I think you're onto something!" Skyquake leaned forward enthusiastically, his weight tipping the table slightly. "They want to try out the equipment, right? But maybe something goes wrong, or maybe they just don't wanna deal with the end results. So they drag these two little grounders out in the desert and shoot them—"

"—which would explain the laserburns," Starscream admitted grudgingly.

"—and for good measure, they open up the fuel line on the red bot—"

"Ah, no." Knockdown raised his hand to stop him. "He did that himself."

"Oh." Skyquake looked disappointed. "Are you sure?"

"Positive. He had bits of wire and metal stuck in his fingers."

"Well . . . maybe he did it 'cause he was afraid to go back."

Airachnid raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you say the Autobots took them to the desert specifically to offline them? What, they just dumped them there and then changed their minds?"

"Maybe I was wrong. Maybe they weren't dumped. Maybe they escaped."

Another thoughtful silence.

Knockdown's comm fizzed to life in the midst of it. "Doc?" Trauma's voice buzzed. "Sorry to interrupt, but I thought you'd like to know—the prisoner's awake."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet the Decepticons! They are one big happy dysfunctional family.
> 
> They are also good at drawing conclusions, but maybe not the right conclusions. It's okay, Decepticons! YOU TRIED.


	11. Soft Deceitful Wiles

Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies.

-  Oliver Goldsmith

 

* * *

 

The tiny _clink_  blended in with the quiet chime of glass as Trauma washed and dried a set of beakers. 

"Trauma!" Ampule prodded his elbow.  "He _moved!"_   The words might have been 'he shot red-hot fireballs from his _eyes'_ for all the weighty significance she gave them.

Trauma set his rag down and looked over at the medical berth.  The red mech was shifting in the slight, meaningless way of one drifting towards consciousness.  The stasis cuff around his wrist gave another little _clink_ as it was pulled taut—the other end having been locked around the side rail of the berth.

"Should we dose him up again?" Jumpstart wanted to know.  Both junior medics—"the twins", they were commonly called, though they were not actually related—looked nervous and excited.  "I mean, in case he tries an escape."

"A daring escape," Amp put in.

"Well, he _does_ look like he's about to jet-judo his way out the door any minute," the older jet quipped as he picked up a medical scanner and moved over to examine the patient's readings.  In truth, it was disconcerting staring down at the face of—well, of his boss.  He half expected the red bot to sit up, tsk disapprovingly at the stasis cuff, and admonish him for leaving water spots on the beakers.

He reached up to check the energon drip, his pale purple finish reflecting the glow of the liquid.  His chassis had been _deep_ purple once, but he'd repainted when he joined the crew of the _Heretic._ His hue was now lighter than Knockdown's, but darker than the junior medics';  Air Commander Starscream had a fondness for order and patterns. Honestly, he felt lucky to still be purple.

"So, uh, more morphite . . . ?" Jumpstart suggested.

 "No, the officers will want him soon," Trauma said.  He looked down again at that familiar white face, half shadowed by a helm with an unfamiliar paint scheme.  Where had he come from?  You had to wonder . . .

"Come on," he said, his mind returning to his job.  "We should check on the other one." 

He tapped in the code for the Auxiliary.  Normally it would have been left unlocked when it was in use, but _normally_ the patient wouldn't have been a duplicate of one of their deadly enemies.  Trauma's systems gave a heady little fizz of fear as he looked at the still figure, but he made himself walk straight over to the medical berth where the black and yellow bot lay.  

Not for nothing had he been calling this patient "the other one."  Even "Yellow", as Knockdown had referred to him, seemed far too close to "Yellowjacket."  Being a medic, Trauma had not personally witnessed many Autobot-Decepticon battles, but he had seen the aftermaths.  Despite being one of the smallest Autobots, Yellowjacket had a reputation for chewing up his opponents and spitting them out.  Metaphorically, of course.

Trauma's gaze rested briefly on the yellow armor covering the unconscious mech's mouth.  No one knew what was under it, or if there _was_ anything under there.  There were plenty of rumors, of course, some feasible (a mouth full of needle sharp teeth) and some just silly (the sucking vortex of a black hole—yeah, that one had come from Jumpstart, which inferred that the idea had originally come from a Human comic book).  All the Decepticons knew for sure was that Yellowjacket's voice was not that of a normal Cybertronian, but a series of rhythmic buzzes and processor-tingling screeches.  As Trauma moved the medical scanner over the berth, he was slightly disappointed to find that the yellow bot had a crushed voice box;  he'd been expecting a more . . . dramatic . . . reason for the Autobot's terrifying quirk.

 _Like what, the black hole vortex of doom? You're as bad as the twins,_ he scolded himself.  _Speaking of which . . ._

"Come in, you two," he gestured to the white jets hesitating in the doorway.  "Trust me, it's safe."  Especially since he'd taken the precaution of securing all of the patient's limbs with electro-bonds in addition to drugging him to high heaven.

"The nanites are losing their glow," Jumpstart noted as he edged in.

Trauma nodded.  "We'll need some fresh ones.  About three canisters, Jump."  Jumpstart nodded and went on his errand as Trauma swiped a cloth through the faint golden glow coating the bot's leg.  Nanites started dying soon after they were excited out of stasis, but they worked quickly too; the cloth left a preternaturally shiny streak of freshly repaired metal in its wake. 

Ampule hooked a new bag of energon to the IV, but her eyes kept dropping to study the yellow and black bot.  "Grounders are kind of lumpy, aren't they?" she said out of nowhere.

"Kind of _what?"_ Where did she get this stuff?  "Don't let Doc Knock hear you say that."

"But Doc's a jet."  Her wings fell in confusion, then slowly rose again.  "Or . . . ohhhh, did you mean because of Br—"

"Ampule!" Trauma facepalmed.  "Just . . . don't say things like that. To anyone.  Ever.  It's rude."

He looked down and resigned himself to the fact that the word "LUMPY" would spring to mind every time he looked at this bot.  And it wasn't even true, really.  Sure, the Cybertronian wasn't as lithe or sleek as the typical jet-former, but he wasn't nearly as hulking as some of the bigger aerial frames, like Skyquake's.

 _I can sort of see what she means, though,_ he admitted to himself as Jumpstart returned.  He took a fresh canister and shook it. _They've got that exotic look.  Kind of . . . dense. Like they're solid metal all the way through . . ._

"His energon levels are at seventy-six percent now," Ampule reported, checking her scanner.

"Good, good.  Brush another layer of nanites into those cracks, both of you." Trauma tapped at a series of hairline fractures still present on the black and yellow casing of the legs.  "I'm going to get more, er, supplies." 

What he actually needed was more sedative, but he was afraid the twins would panic if he said so.  It would be hours before the strange bot came around—no half-measures when it came to putting _him_ under—but the junior jets were a little flighty, no pun intended.

The door opened with a quiet chuff of air.  Trauma thought he heard a little clink of metal against metal, but different than before.  As though the sound had been suddenly muffled or cut off.  His eyes settled on the prisoner—the patient?—both—as he walked by.  The red form was still and silent.  A little _too_ still, compared to the dazed, subconscious movements he'd exhibited before.

On an impulse, Trauma walked right past the cupboard with the morphite, heading instead to another set of side doors leading off the lab.  He didn't have a good view of the medical berth from here; he could only see a little of the bot's left arm (still swathed in foil bandages) and side.  But a mirror across the room gave him a view from the other side, although this too was incomplete. Trauma pressed his palm to the door-pad and watched the door hiss open, then hiss close.  He waited.

Not even a minute passed before the prisoner started to move.  Not very much.  Just his right servo, the one cuffed to the bed.  Moving it, twisting his wrist, testing the stasis cuff with jerky little movements.  The sound of metal striking metal rose in a crescendo, more frequent and frantic, until Trauma frowned in concern, on the point of intervening.

But the last ringing died away, replaced by a muffled thunk as the bot's wrist dropped to his chassis.  He saw the mech's right hand, fisted, gradually relaxing until his fingers rested calmly across his chest.

The silence settled in.  Just as Trauma was about to return to his original task—fetching the morphite—the grounder's fingers began to tap in a thoughtful, consecutive sequence.  After a moment, the bot pushed himself upright.  Trauma could see the tremor in his left arm as he levered himself up, but otherwise he seemed composed.  Shifting over to the edge of the berth, he swung his legs over the side. 

And that was all.  He just sat there, legs hanging well above the floor and swinging a little, not even tilting his head to examine the stasis cuff tethering him to the palette.  He seemed to be studying the room instead.  His back was to Trauma, but the jet could see his expression in the mirror—little flashes of emotion chasing across his face, a grimace following a frown, a roll of the eyes, or even a bit of a wry smile.  So unlike Knockdown's steadfast, unfathomable demeanor.

Speaking of his boss . . . Trauma glanced down at his wrist as he quietly commed the Chief Medical Officer.  "Doc? Sorry to interrupt, but I thought you should know—the prisoner's awake."

"Be right there," was the brief reply.

Trauma lifted his eyes;  his spark gave a wobble as he met the stranger's eyes in the mirror.  All the expression had slid off his pale face.  His features were a mask;  only his red eyes seemed alive, drilling into Trauma, dissecting him.

It only lasted an instant. The eyes disappeared from the glass as the mech swung his legs onto the berth and turned around.  The emptiness was gone—maybe he had imagined it?—and instead the stranger wore a lazy smile.

"Hellooo," he drawled.  "Maybe you can help me?  I seem to be handcuffed to a bed."  Tugging at his wrist, he leaned forward to add in a confidential tone, "And it's not even the _weekend."_

* * *

Within five minutes, the red mech had persuaded him to set him free.  Trauma had no idea how to explain this to his boss.

"You set him loose."  Knockdown was shorter than Trauma, but carried himself as though he was the same height as whoever he was talking to under normal circumstances, and as though he was standing perched atop Mount Everest when he was angry.  Thus, in a confused sort of vertigo, Trauma found himself cowering down from the superior officer who was glaring up at him.

"I . . . I'm sorry, sir.  It just sort of happened—"

"It just sort of _happened."_ One of the terrible things about Knockdown's wrath was that it was so quiet.  You had to lean close to hear what he was saying.  You didn't dare _not._   "Giving a prisoner of war free range of my medical bay just sort of _happened."_

"Well, he hasn't actually done anything except walk around," Trauma defended weakly.  His eyes drew back to the mysterious red mech, who was making a casual circuit of the lab, poking through drawers and picking up equipment at random, uncaring of the stasis cuff still dangling from his wrist.  "And he's a patient as well as a prisoner."

"All the more reason to keep him in bed!"

Actually Trauma had initially tried that argument ("You need to lie down, you've lost a lot of energon"), but the red mech had simply smiled at him, unfastened the bag of medical-grade from the drip stand, and looped the hook onto one of his shoulder struts (and did he _ever_ have shoulders).  And although he had the occasional unsteady moment where he paused to prop himself up on a counter, he didn't seem to be in any immediate danger.

"I'm sorry," Trauma repeated helplessly.  He prayed that Knockdown would not turn around and notice that the patient was now offhandedly tugging at the drawer that housed the scalpels.  It was locked, thank Primus, but even as Trauma watched, the red bot slid his fingers along the seams of the drawer, digging at them.  Frowning, he held up his hand, critically examining his fingers.  The frown morphed into a cheery smile as he caught Trauma's eye and winked.  Knockdown turned around in time to catch the injured mech's little wave.

Yep, Trauma was a dead bot walking all right.

Knockdown swung back around as though the sight pained him.  "Has he said anything _useful_ or _informative,_ at least?"

"Well, he said he likes humans . . ." He had been most emphatic on this point. Weren't humans _clever,_ he'd said, so _innovative_ and _charming,_ he just LOVED THEM TO DEATH, and at that point Trauma was leaning back from those creepy red eyes and regretting unchaining him and almost sagged with relief when the bot finally wandered off to explore the lab.  He had tensed when Jumpstart and Ampule had crept out of the Auxiliary to watch him, but thankfully they hadn't approached him, or he them.

"So we know his favorite species. Lovely. Hopefully he won't start infesting us with pets like a certain someone," Knockdown said drily.  "Anything else?  His allegiance?  His name?"

"Err, no . . ."

 _"Really?_ Not even that?" Knockdown's brows drew down heavily and Trauma prepared for the storm to break.

"Doctor!" Starscream had stopped in the doorway, hands on her hips.  Airachnid stood behind her, arms crossed and looking similarly unamused. "WHY, pray tell, is your counterpart wandering about like a psy-sheep in a petting zoo?!"

"At this rate, maybe you'd like to just let him loose in the weapons vault," Airachnid added.

There was no hesitation. Knockdown face smoothed out to his usual calm expression as he turned.  "Ah.  Air Commander. Security Director.  I felt . . .  that we would glean more information from the subject if he was comfortable.  Familiar with his environment."

"Well, he certainly seems to be settling in."  Starscream raised one expressive eye-ridge.  "We had a little debate, after you left, about what to do if our two 'discoveries' proved to be only mindless automatons.  I do not think," she said drily, watching the mech snatch up a buffer with a little exclamation of delight, "that we need have worried.  His general demeanor has been . . . ?"

Knockdown flicked a look at Trauma.

"Friendly," Trauma volunteered.  "Confident." 

"Huh. I thought he was supposed to be a little suicide machine." Airachnid unfolded her acid green and yellow arms.  "Is he still high?"

Knockdown vented a huff of disapproval at this expression.  "No."  He passed a datapad over to Airachnid; Trauma had at least had the sense to check the patient's vitals before releasing him.  "And don't bring it up with him, please. That's a matter for private counseling, not a public inquiry."

Airachnid's eyes narrowed.  "Maybe when the patient is one of _us_ it is, but when it's a matter of security—"

Trauma intervened; Airachnid and Knockdown had never gotten along, thanks to the spider-bot's habit of dropping by the lab with her organic "pets"—spiders being a favorite of course—which Knockdown insisted were unhygienic. "I think I can coax him over here, if you'd like to talk with him.  Or are we waiting for Megatron?"

Starscream examined her talons. "Lord Megatron will be . . . delayed slightly."

"He's still trying to drum up Shockwave," Airachnid said.  "Let's get started.  Bring him over, Trauma."

The purple flier nodded and started across the lab.  The red grounder was still admiring the buffer, fluffing the edges of its soft pad in his fingers, but he looked up quickly as Trauma approached. His expression flickered, then the corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk.

"Hello again."

"How are you feeling?" Trauma asked.  He was still a medic, after all.  The patient came first.

"Since you asked . . . I'd feel better if you took the stasis cuff off."  With a playful smile, the mech held up his wrist and wiggled it so that the loose end of the cuff swayed.

"Soon," Trauma soothed. He didn't like lying to patients but what could you do?  Sometimes it was necessary to keep them calm.  "There are some bots here who want to talk to you."

"Reeeeally?"  There was a faint mocking air to his response as he regarded the group now gathered by the medical berth—the green and yellow spider, the black, gold, and scarlet Seeker, and his blue lookalike. "Then lead me to them, by all means."

 _Well, that was easy,_ Trauma thought in relief.  Then he had to resist the urge to facepalm;  the twins were hurrying over, their blue optics filled with curiosity.  The red mech just raised an eyebrow, seemingly amused.  Well, Trauma might have been too, if he didn't have a parcel of officers waiting on him!

"We put on a good spread of nanites, like you said," Jumpstart said brightly. 

"And we wondered if three jars was enough," Ampule put in.

Trauma gave them a stony look; this was clearly just an excuse to come over and boggle at Doc Knock's doppelganger, since the twins had applied the nanites a good half an hour ago.  "Yes, three is enough. Now go run a deep scan on the . . . in the Auxiliary."

"But we ran one just three hours ago—"

"Run another," Trauma snapped.  "Wait a moment . . ."  He stepped over to a cupboard and, oh slag, this was awkward, he cupped his hand over the keypad so the mech wouldn't see the code.  "And give the—ahem. And use a dose of this."   He pushed a small bag of morphite into Jumpstart's hands and shooed the jets away, wondering how the stranger would react to this blatant lack of trust. 

But the grounder was busy examining his clipped fingers again, unoffended by his actions, perhaps even unaware of them.  "Ah, young-bots. They work here, hmm?"

"Yes, they're our juniors.  The one with green trim is Jumpstart, the one with purple is Ampule.  And I'm Trauma, by the way."  He held out his hand.

The injured mech didn't seem to see it;  he was in the process turning away.  "Trauma.  Yes.  Ye-es." He was still holding the buffer; he tapped it against his palm.  "So . . . you're a medic here as well."

"That's right.  The twins, me, and the Doc.  Of course, a ship this size _should_ really have, ohhh, a medical staff of eight, ten, something like that.  Just the four of us—it's a little ridiculous."

"Ridiculous," the stranger agreed.  He wore a little frown, like he was thinking of something else.  

It cleared away quickly as they reached the three Decepticon officers.  The grounder studied them.  Strangely, it was not his lookalike who garnered the most attention from him, but rather the Air Commander;  there was an amused smile peeking out from under the fingers raised to his mouth as he leaned back and regarded her.

Airachnid got straight to the point.  "Who are you?"

"Knock Out."  He flourished a bow, centered on Starscream, but grimaced a little as he straightened, rubbing his back. "And let me assure you, I am usually much more _worthy_ of the name." 

"Knock _Out?"_ Knockdown repeated. 

"That's what I said."  He twitched a finger towards his counterpart.  "You?"

"Knockdown," the cyan medic said without inflection. For all their similarities, he was a half a head taller than the red bot and more streamlined.

"Knockdown, eh?  Well, well, the apple doesn't fall far from the, er, how does expression that go?  From the snake?  Anyway.  The blue's not baaaad . . ."  He hesitated, as though trying to decide if his flattery was sincere or not, then broke into a wide smile as he placed the tips of his fingers on chest with a twirl of his hand.  "But then I _do_ look good in anything."

Knockdown's eye ridges were climbing so high that they threatened to disappear under the edge of his helm.  Starscream cleared her throat.

"And then there's the other difference, my dear . . . A matter of your vehicular mode?"

"Heh.  He's a jet, obviously. The wings," Knock Out said with a hint of a smirk, "are the giveaway.  My own alt form is—well, why don't you take off this stasis cuff?  I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

"Absolutely not," Airachnid said with a snort.  "Answer Starscream's question.  Why aren't you a Seeker?"

Knock Out crossed his arms, not liking her tone.  "Why should I be?"

"Knockdown is."

"Well, bully for Knockdown.   _I'm_ an automobile."

"And you don't find that a little odd, considering . . ."

"Considering?"

"Considering your _origin?"_

Knock Out cocked his head to the side.  "I'm not sure I understand you."

"Oh, don't play the fool," Airachnid scoffed, her tone light and amused.  "You can tell us the truth now, ooooor . . . we can wait for Shockwave's expertise."

"Hey now!" Knock Out raised his hands in protest, his smile shaky.  "There's no need to bring Shockwave into this.  I mean, we're having a friendly little interrogation here all on our own, right?  No need to involve old one-eye, ah ha ha."

"Ohhh, so you _do_ recognize the name.  Despite not knowing ours.  Interesting." Suddenly she was hoisting herself up on her spindly spider-legs, advancing with rapid strides on the red mech as he backed away.  "What is your purpose?  What is your function?  Do the Autobots have more of your kind hidden away somewhere?"

"Whoa!  Hey!  What?!"

"Airachnid."  Knockdown hadn't moved and his voice was mild, but his hands were on his hips.  "He _is_ my _patient._   Stop."

She turned with a sweet smile.  "And have I laid a single leg on him, doctor?"

"You're terrifying him."

"She is NOT," Knock Out snapped in annoyance, pushing himself away from the table that he'd backed into.  "I may have been slightly _startled_ . . ."  Still grumbling, he leaned down to gather the tray of tools he'd accidentally knocked off the table, his back to Airachnid to show how much he didn't give a frag about her.

"Now, now," Starscream said soothingly.  She might not approve of Airachnid's little  _outbursts,_ but they were sometimes useful.  "Airachnid, a little tact if you please.  This bot is not our enemy."

"That's a dangerous assumption, Screamy, and you know it.  This could be a plant, an Autobot spy—"

"Puh-lease." Knock Out rolled his optics.  _"Autobots._ Autobots are the reason I'm in this mess.   First the _explosion_ , then the _ground bridge,_ oh, and let's not forget stupid slagging Smokescreen—"  He stopped, realizing they were all staring at him.  "What?"

"Tell us about . . ." Knockdown had the air of one trying to decide between Door #1 or what was behind the curtain on a game show. "Smokescreen."

Knock Out's expression was sour.  "When I tried to surrender to him the little glitch decided to use me as _target practice_.  Then he danced the flamenco on my back until I passed out."

The Decepticons digested this.

"That does sound like Smokescreen," Airachnid acknowledged.

"You tried to surrender, you say," Knockdown said.

His red counterpart lifted and dropped his broad shoulders in a shrug.  "I was damaged.  I thought he'd haul me back to Autobot headquarters and patch me up.  Not use me as a clay pigeon."  His tone was slightly bored.  He began sorting the tools on the table by size.

"You mentioned a ground bridge?" Starscream asked.  "And an explosion?"

"The explosion happened before the ground bridge," Knock Out said vaguely;  the full explanation seemed unnecessarily complicated to him.  "Then I went through the 'bridge and ended up here.  Well, when I say 'here', I really mean 'the energon mine', but you know what I mean."

"Soundwave is out scouting the area more thoroughly," Starscream said thoughtfully.  "And he did mention finding an energon mine."

"That's the one."  He began to line up a set of screwdrivers.  "And if he found a pile of dead Vehicons, I'm glad to say that I contributed to it."

"You _contributed_ to it.  You and who else?" Airachnid asked, her voice soft, almost a purr.

Knock Out's hands hung in mid-air a moment before lowering to straighten a wrench.  "Myself and Bumblebee, naturally.  He came through the 'bridge too."

"Bumblebee!" Starscream exclaimed.  "Hmmm, Bumblebee.  And—he is an Autobot?"

Knock Out wandered over to the next table.  The others didn't follow him, just watched as he restlessly fiddled with or poked at objects.  He picked up a small energon flask and turned it over in his hands.  After a moment, he shrugged. 

"Maybe you should ask him."  His tone was neutral, but his eyes flipped to the Auxiliary for a moment. "I think you'll find he's a different breed than Smokescreen."

"A different breed.  Tell me, Knock Out . . ." Airachnid moved into his line of vision.  "Does the name Yellowjacket mean anything to you?"

He looked up. "No."

"Wait—what?"  She seemed genuinely surprised.  "No?"

"Should it?" he asked with a hint of insolence.

Heavy footsteps reverberated behind him.

"Yellowjacket," a said deep, gravelly voice at his back that sent little jolts of terror up his spine, "was an Autobot spy.  He delighted in cruelty, stalking his victims and inflicting shallow wounds until they fell, helpless, into stasis.  And into his hands." 

Knock Out turned slowly and found himself looking up, up, up into the face of a Megatron who, aside from having golden armor, blue optics, and a red insignia, was the spitting image of the leader he knew and feared.  Right down to the sharp-edged helm and the razor sharp teeth.

The teeth were on display as Megatron spoke, leaning down to Knock Out's level.  "I terminated Yellowjacket myself, after he cruelly tormented and murdered Dreadwing, a loyal friend.  So you can see why his name is well-known to us."

Knock Out slid his foot backwards in slow motion, easing the rest of his body after it in a mobile cringe as he reflexively pressed his right hand to his chest in salute.  He had never stood this close to Megatron before, and never wanted to again.

"Y-yes, of course, my liege."  His smile was wide and bright, with fear oozing around the edges.  His mind was replaying every injury Starscream had ever suffered.

"'My liege'?" Megatron lifted an eyebrow;  in the background the others exchanged looks of surprise.  "You are quick to claim fealty, even when none is offered."

"My apologies, Lord Megatr—GAH!"  Flinching, he shielded himself with his arms as the golden fusion cannon swung towards him.  After a few long, stretching seconds he opened one optic and saw, below the cannon, a golden hand extended.  Megatron's face was grave, impossible to read.

Knock Out lowered his arms with as much dignity as he could muster and tried to straighten up.  Yes, he had his hypotheses on blue-eyed Decepticons, but he also had his learned instincts—and a preponderance of evidence—regarding what happened to a 'Con who got too close to something Megatron-shaped. (The bulk of this evidence was named "Starscream.") 

So he was hesitant when he reached out to place his hand in Megatron's.  He watched the giant golden fingers enfold his digits and prayed that he would see them again.  The awkwardness was increased by the fact that Knock Out had offered his left hand, since it was his left arm that was injured; if Megatron _did_ lose his temper, he reasoned, he would at least have one good limb left.  But the handshake was careful and gentle.  Knock Out did stumble a bit when Megatron pulled him fully upright.  He could see the other Decepticons gathered back behind their leader, all of them, even Airachnid, looking shocked and sympathetic.

 "Poor thing," he thought he heard Starscream murmur, and his outrage at this remark was only half-hearted.  He wished Megatron would let go of his hand so that his spark would stop trying to tumble out of his chest in panic.  Instead the Decepticon leader tilted his arm, examining the clumsy temporary medical weld.

Megatron finally let go and Knock Out politely but hastily backed away to a more comfortable distance.

"What happened there?" Megatron asked in that familiar-unfamiliar gravelly voice, pointing towards the  weld with one claw. 

"Ah, Megatron—"  And here was Knockdown, respectful yet irritated, putting his hand on Megatron's arm like it was nothing to _put his hand on Megatron's arm._   "That's not really a question for now—"

Oh, Primus.  This idiot.

"Hey—I'm not the type to write dark poetry and cut into my own fuel lines for kicks, okay?" Knock Out snapped.  And, in response to Knockdown's silent skepticism, he added, "Look, I was—" He let out a growl of annoyance as he gesticulated towards the heavens, his speech becoming more rapid. "I was just trying to dig out a piece of casing.  Then a truck blasted its horn and I was afraid it was Prime.  My hand jerked—"

"Prime?" Starscream said sharply.  She had drawn nearer, as had most of the 'Cons.

"Yes.  It was just some human vehicle, I think.  But my first thought was Optimus Prime." Knock Out's scowl intensified.  "Last time that noise _blasted_ in my audial, my _door_ was ripped off thirty seconds later."

With a certain inevitability, everyone looked at his doorless arm.  More sympathetic looks.  Airachnid went so far as to pat his arm with one of her beast-legs; he tried not to recoil in disgust.

"So is that . . ." Ampule, one of the white jets, had edged into the crowd at some point.  "Is that why you ran away?"

Knock Out opened his mouth, then shut it, replaying his questioning at the hands of these blue-eyed Cybertronians who called themselves Decepticons.

All that business with "his origin" and "Shockwave's expertise" . . . He'd always thought of Shockwave's expertise as being in the highly specialized field of "torture and interrogation", but he had one other major skillset, didn't he?  (Besides blathering about logic, that was to say.)  These idiots were just too . . . too _Autobot_ to come out and ask such a blunt, rude, personal question.

He dipped his head to hide a slight smile.  Well, after all, he'd been assuming, too—that his counterpart was just as well-versed as he was in Human science fiction movies and would understand what the presence of a red-eyed 'Con implied.

Knock Out looked up and met a wall of curiosity, compassion, and kindness.  Megatron, while looming, was looming from a safe distance (which was to say, Knock Out was out of his reach).  The others looked satisfyingly guilty at having subjected him to what was probably, in their minds, harsh questioning.  For the first time since the energon mine explosion, Knock Out felt comfortable.  Safe.  These bots would not hurt him.

And, most satisfying of all, in his entire, thorough examination of the lab, he had not found _a single one_ of the components needed to set up a cortical psychic patch. And he had looked. OH, how he had looked.

He pushed aside the tools from a table and pulled himself onto it.  "Well, let me tell you . . ."

The lies flowed, simple and exquisite and just vague enough.

* * *

Many hours later, when Bumblebee finally fought his way out of his drug-induced sleep, he awoke to find a pair of round, red eyes looming above him out of a pale face.

"Wakey, wakey!" a familiar voice piped cheerfully, before adding:  "By the way—we're clones now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Airachnid's colors are based on this [Orchard spider ( _Leucauge venusta_ )](http://img.geocaching.com/cache/51ae6131-6e04-4310-b625-5b446454c85e.jpg). Basically, yellow and lime green with white highlights.
> 
> Starscream's color scheme is mainly black with gold and scarlet highlights, and a white or pale gold for her faceplate. 
> 
> I decided to take the whole "hue" thing and run with it; she's the leader of the Armada, so she's the jet with the darkest color scheme. Meanwhile Ampule and Jumpstart are on the low end of the jet hierarchy, so they're white. But that's okay, their main function is to ~~cause trouble~~ assist in the med lab.
> 
> Trauma is a mix of light purple with highlights of dark purple and dark blue.
> 
> The colors may contradict earlier chapters--I think I might've referred to Starscream as silver before--so at some point I'll go back and clean them up.


	12. The Art of Untruth

Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat,  
When it's so lucrative to cheat.  
Bear not false witness; let the lie  
Have time on its own wings to fly.

\- Arthur Hugh Clough, "The Latest Decalogue"

 

Bumblebee stared at Knock Out.  He wasn't sure he'd heard correctly.  He wasn't even sure this was really happening.  "We're what now?"

"Clones!" Knock Out repeated, looking unbearably smug.  He was leaning, for some reason, on what appeared to be a strangely proportioned ladder, propped under his right arm. "Created by the Autobots for some cruel purpose which I, as a lowly clone, am of course unaware of."

Bumblebee tried to facepalm and found that his arms—no, ALL his limbs—were tethered tightly against the berth by glowing hard-light bonds.  "Listen Knock Out, I don't know what you're talking about or what you're up to, but if you don't let me go right NOW, Decepti-creep—"

"Did you know," Knock Out asked pleasantly, "that you sound just like Smokescreen when you say that?"

Bumblebee silently glared at him.

"Oh, come on, aren't you even going to ask me which Smokescreen?  Trick question!  The answer is 'both'.  Very childish, I've always thought."

"Let. Me. GO."

 _"Moi?_  What makes you think I'm responsible for your current . . . situation?"

"Oh, let me think . . . I'm tied up in a room with Decepticon insignias all over the walls, I wake up with a Decepticon medic standing over me—"

"Ha!  No more than I went through!"  Knock Out held up his wrist;  the piece of metal that Bumblebee had subconsciously assumed was a crutch or a ladder turned out to be . . .

"That's right, it's the bedrail," Knock Out said smugly as it hung from the other end of his stasis cuff.  "I filched a few tools when they weren't looking. Mind you, it took forever to unbolt, and Primus knows how long it'll take to put it back on.  Sooo, let's be quick about this."  Walking over to the monitor in the corner of the room, he tapped a few buttons and turned a dial.

Bumblebee shrieked as his bonds began to glow with heat.

"Oops.  Scrap.  Shut UP, Autobot!"  The Decepticon hastily twisted the dial the other way and the hard-light constructs dimmed into nothingness.

Bumblebee sat up with jerk, rubbing his wrists.  "You did that on purpose!"

"I did  _not._   It's just that everything is . . .  _different_  here."  Knock Out tilted his helm.  "You've noticed that, I assume?"

Bumblebee felt a fresh wave of dejection as he thought of Smokescreen and the Autobot Vehicons.  "Yeah, I've noticed.  This is like . . . opposite world."

"So you caught on, good.  Autobots with red eyes, Decepticons with blue eyes.  Well.  As I said, not much time.  First things first: do you still have the Phase Shifter?"

The Phase Shifter!  He had honestly forgotten about it.  He found the catch to his arm compartment and pulled it out, relieved to see that it was intact and unbroken.  "Sure do."

"Thank Primus."  The Decepticon put out his hand.  "Give it here."

Bumblebee drew the Phase Shifter as far away from the medic as possible, almost holding it over his head.  "Are you KIDDING?  You think I'm going to just hand over a priceless Iacon relic?  To YOU?"

For a moment Knock Out looked surprised, then annoyed.  "Would you rather let  _them_  have it?" He made a sweeping gesture towards the door.  "They might not have found it yet, but they will eventually!"

"And _you_ can keep it safe?" Bumblebee shot back.  "They won't find it on you?"

"I won't keep it _on_  me, idiot, I'll hide it. Bu-ut if you'd rather have the honors . . ."  Knock Out sank back to recline in a chair, hooking his leg over the arm of it with an air of exaggerated relaxation.  "I'm sure you know the layout of a  _Decepticon warship_  better than I do."

Bumblebee stared at him, then threw the Phase Shifter directly at the Decepticon's helmet. Regrettably, Knock Out's hand shot up and caught the relic before it could scratch his paint.  "There! Now was that so hard?"

"You _will_ be returning it later," Bumblebee informed him in a low tone, eyebrows drawn down as his blue irises cycled open and shut.

"A later worry for a later time," the medic said.  "And for now, a valuable piece of insurance in case I— _we_ —have to beat a hasty retreat.  But I don't think that will be necessary.  These Decepticons are very congenial."

"Congenial how?"  Bumblebee suspected Knock Out might have a radically different definition of the word than he did.

"They're repairing us, for one thing."

"After shooting missiles at me."

"Not at you, as far as they were concerned," Knock Out corrected.  "At Yellowjacket."

"Wait, who?"

"Am I the  _only_  one who watches the right movies? I thought you Autobots were supposed to be _into_ Human . . . stuff." The red medic rolled his eyes towards the ceiling.  "He's your counterpart on this mudball, of course.  Like that Smokescreen double we ran across."

Bumblebee's spark contracted in horror. _"So there's a crazy version of ME out there?"_

"No, Megatron killed him," Knock Out informed him, as though this were no big deal, that an alternate-universe Megatron had murdered Bumblebee's alternate-universe self, as though this were an everyday thing to convey, like 'Hey, we're out of high-grade and by the way you there's an evil version of you, but IT'S COOL, HE'S DEAD'. 

"So what about you, do you have a double?"

"Of course.  He's the ship's CMO.  That stands for Chief Medical—"

"I KNOW what it stands for, I'm not a new-build.  How come your double is alive and mine is dead?  What did you say his name was?"

"Blind luck, I suppose." He didn't clarify which one of them he considered the lucky one. "His name is—was—Yellowjacket, but you don't need to worry about that.  I already told them I didn't know who he was, so they won't expect you to know either.  Remember, you're just an innocent, naive clone—"

"Stop.  Stop!  Just what is this CLONE thing you're on?  Why . . . why would you tell them we're clones?  Why would you DO that?" Bumblebee threw his arms in the air in frustration.

Knock Out vented out a slow, patronizing sigh that made Bumblebee want to throttle him.  "Because clones are more  _plausible."_

Bumblebee stared at him.  "More plausible than the _truth?"_

"Exactly.  We  _know_  cloning technology exists, but do we know that alternate universes exist?"

"Yes.  Yes we do."

"I meant collectively," he clarified.  "'We', as in the Cybertronian race. Anyway, they already had their minds made up.  Take it from a 'Con, the best lies are the ones other people build for you.  All we have to do is nod and play along."

"Knock Out."  Bumblebee spoke slowly, leaning forward.  "I'm sure this is going to sound crazy to a Decepticon, but sometimes, instead of lying, you can just TELL THE TRUTH."

"It wasn't so much lying as, mmm, being selective with the facts.  I told them we came through a ground bridge—true—and were attacked by Vehicons—true—"

"I'll bet you left out the part where you attacked ME."

"Yes, that got expunged from the record," the medic readily admitted.  "But I worked in the part where I told the Vehicons I was a Decepticon—you remember?"

"Yeah . . . how many hits did you take back there?"

"Too many." Knock Out grimaced.  "But at least it made good theater.  For this bunch, 'I am a Decepticon  _officer'_  clearly wouldn't wash, so I said I'd stood up proudly before the Vehicons and told them 'I am a Decepticon'—meaning that I felt a kinship to the noble Decepticon cause deep in my spark—"

"You are an awful, awful mech."

"And from there on, it was pretty much the truth—running into Smokescreen, running  _from_  Smokescreen—I left out the part where you  _abandoned me,_ thanks for that, by the way—"

"What are you, Little Orphan Annie?"

"Who?"

"Ugh, nevermind."  He fought down an unreasoning twinge of guilt.  He wasn't responsible for the safety of another fully functional mech, especially not one who was technically the enemy!  "So . . . what exactly did happen to you after I left? I came back, and . . . your arm . . ."

"Primus, I should just make a recording of this and play it back to people," Knock Out grumbled.  "I had to repeat myself five times and point out that I have a  _buzzsaw_  in each arm before the crew would believe I hadn't tried to  _off_  myself in that prolonged, messy way.  Really, do I seem like that sort of mech?"

"No, you don't. At all."

 _"Thank_  you, finally someone who GETS it.  Anyway, I was pulling a shard of shrapnel out of my arm and it cut the fuel conduit, which I then had to dig it out to stop the flow, blah blah blah.  Transmission ends."

"Oh, yeah, I saw the clamps.  Ratchet taught us about those, for field emergencies.  They can save your life if you're fast enough."

This well-intentioned remark seemed to offend the medic.  "Ratchet couldn't have done any better or faster," he snapped, "administering first aid to _himself,_ ALONE, in the dark, _one-handed!_  Ratchet couldn't even have REACHED the conduit with his big, blunt, Autobot fingers!"

Bumblebee was taken aback. "Whoa.  All right. Calm down." It occurred to him that the supposed limitations of Ratchet's "big, blunt, Autobot fingers" would probably have prevented the accident in the first place, but he refrained from saying so.  "So, I still don't get this 'clone' thing."

Knock Out relaxed a fraction.  "Well. I told them there was a big explosion before the ground bridge opened— _also_  true—and that I remembered a big chamber filled with bubbling test tubes, experimental equipment and so on.  I said I couldn't remember much prior to the explosion, aside from vague memories of cruelty at the hands of the horrible, heartless Autobots."

"Why does that not surprise me?"

"Now I know you Autobots are, shall we say,  _unversed_  in the art of misdirection, so let me make this crystal clear.  As much as possible, your answer to questions is that  _you don't know_  or  _you can't remember._   Where is the Autobot base?  You don't know.  Were there any other clones?  You can't remember.  Who was in charge of the project?  You have no idea. Remember, no one can disprove a lie you never told."

"Knock Out . . ."

"The only snag is that I mentioned liking humans to one of the medics right off the bat, but hopefully he's forgotten. Otherwise I'll say, hmm, I'll say that the Autobots intercept human transmissions or something. It's weak, but it should pass muster. Oh, and they know I recognized Shockwave's name, and Megatron's.  But if you were making clones, wouldn't  _you_  mention Shockwave's research all the time?  And Megatron, well, how can you not know Lord Megatron, in any universe he's in?  That's how I'm going to play it, anyway."

"KNOCK OUT!"  The Decepticon winced as Bumblebee's vocalizer shrieked with shrill beeps.  "I am not going pretend to be a clone!"

"What?  After all my hard work?  Why NOT?"

"Because there's no NEED to, you bare-faced liar!"

"I hardly lied at  _all,"_  Knock Out huffed. "And you, Bumblebee—you think the Truth, capital T, is some magic _fairy shield_  that's going to protect you from what's out there?  From the  _Decepticon crew_  out there?"

"They aren't Decepticons like YOU," Bumblebee retorted.  "They're REPAIRING us.  They're GOOD.  They have BLUE EYES."

"Oh, blue eyes!" He threw his hands in the air.  "Thank goodness, we're safe forever.  I guess that explains Lord Megatron's plan to end the war by sneaking into Optimus Prime's recharge chamber with a can of spray paint!"

"You know what I think?  I think you know you're in deep slag if they figure out that the Autobots are like Decepticons here, and Decepticons are like Autobots.  So you waltz in here trying to convince me to back up your crazy story—" 

"Listen, Autobot!" Knock Out shot to his feet so fast he almost knocked over the chair.  " I don't have to be doing this!  I don't have to be sneaking around in the dead of night trying to coordinate with you, trying to come up with something to save our chassis—"

"To save YOUR chassis!"

"To save OUR CHASSIS." He gripped the side of the berth, the railing chained to his arm clanging against it.  "And you know what?  YOU'RE the one in deep slag here!  I look like their  _doctor,_  you look like some psycho who snuffed Dreadwing!  They put a handcuff on me and tied you down like a science experiment, what does that tell you?"

"Once they talk to me, they'll realize—"

"What, Bumblebee?  What will they realize?  That you're 'good on the inside'?  Please!  They don't have a cortical patch to turn your brain inside out and they're  _scared of you,_  understand? If Shockwave turned up on your doorstep with a different color scheme, what would you do?"

"Shut up."

"And if he was with Cliffjumper, which would you trust?"

"Don't you DARE bring Cliffjumper into this, you slimy piece of scrap!  DON'T YOU DARE!"

"The truth hurts, doesn't it, Bumblebee?" His fingers creaked with pressure as they gripped the berth.  "And the truth is  _I'm_  your best shot at freedom here.  And, Primus help me, I  _vouched_  for you, you ungrateful little  _wretch_.  'Oh, Bumblebee, he's harmless.'  'Not a  _real_  Autobot like Smokescreen.'  'No, I've never been afraid of him, he's very sedate.'  I didn't have to stick my neck out for you!  I could just as easily have said what they expected to hear!"

"Then why didn't you?" Bumblebee shot back.  "Out of the kindness of your spark?  Oh wait, I know, it's because I'm an ASSET, to keep in reserve until you need to push me into the line of fire!"

Knock Out straightened, his optics burning.

"That's right, Autobot. You ARE just an asset to me.  Something to help me get home.  And, guess what? I'm an asset to you, too.  But if you want to spill your guts to the crew?  GO AHEAD."

He slammed his palms on the berth; Bumblebee very deliberately stared him down without flinching.

"I  _thought_  you might be  _troublesome,_  so I played up the amnesia aspect and played it up hard, and if I have to _miraculously_ regain my memory, then so be it.  This isn't  _my_  problem.   _You'll_  be the one explaining to the crew how you spend your days shooting at bots who wear their faces.  Back on the berth," the medic snarled as Bumblebee aggressively pushed himself forward.  "Unless your dedication to 'the truth' includes telling your captors all about this little  _interlude."_

"You slagging Decepticon."  Bumblebee was shaking with fury as he laid back.

Knock Out didn't answer, just stalked over to the control panel and turned the hard-light holographic restraints on with a swat of his hand.  They seemed tighter than before as they flared into being around Bumblebee's arms and legs.  Rounding the berth, the Decepticon grabbed a slim tube that was dangling from a small, opaque bag.  There was a needle at the end.

"What in the Pit is that?  Get away from me, creep!"

"It's morphite," he snapped back.  "And the tube was in when I came in, so it's going to be in when I go out.   Took three shots of anisyllem to get you up, FYI."

There was a little pinch as the needle dug between two pieces of plating on Bumblebee's arm, sinking into an energon conduit.  Knock Out stepped back and watched, his eyes narrowed and his arms crossed.  The railing swung from his wrist, ridiculous and ungainly.  Gradually his image fuzzed in Bumblebee's optics, a blot of red seeping away to blend with the sterile grey walls.

"Li-listen, you . . . fragging . . ." Bumblebee couldn't remember what he wanted to say to the Decepticon, but he knew it was scathing and brilliant.  He would tell Raf about all this later over "Street Racer IV" . . . Yes . . .

There was a snort from somewhere near-far, and someone roughly pried at the casing of his leg until the little side compartment popped open.  With an effort and a distant feeling of alarm, Bumblebee just managed to reset his optics and lift his head a bit.

A small energon flask clicked into its custom-built slot and the compartment was slapped shut, hard enough to sting.  Two red spotlights glared out of the gathering fog, then receded.

"Idiot," Bumblebee thought he heard as his optics gave out. 

He sunk back into the haze as a door hissed shut.

 


	13. Patience and Patients

The night has a thousand eyes,  
And a thousand eyes can't help but see  
When you're untrue to me,  
So remember when you tell those little white lies  
That the night has a thousand eyes.

\- Bobby Vee

* * *

Technically, there was no reason for the ship to run on a twenty-four hour schedule. Their native planet of Cybertron had a much longer solar-cycle rotation and, anyway, very few rooms on the _Heretic_ had windows. And even those that did usually didn't admit a lot of light.

But Cybertronians had an almost psychological _need_ to harmonize with whatever planet they happened to be on. It just made them feel more comfortable. Safer. And Primus only knew the Decepticons needed anything that would set them at their ease these days. And so, in addition to picking up native alternate modes, they had adapted to a new and shorter circadian rhythm. With a few exceptions, they recharged during Earth's night and woke with each new day.

One of the exceptions was, naturally, Airachnid. And perhaps this was because real spiders never sleep; they only wait.

Airachnid's feet clicked against the metallic flooring as she wandered the corridors. The ship's lights were dimmed down at night, to conserve energon, but the shadows spilling across the floor didn't bother her. She could see in the dark, or very nearly. Occasionally one of the spider legs on her back reached out to tap at a wall, her sensors gathering data. Everything seemed calm, but then it always did, right up until all hell broke loose.

Their war with the Autobots had been like that ever since they'd fled the gutted ruins of Cybertron. The Decepticons would outrun them for a while and settle into a halfway normal routine, and then BAM, an Autobot raid. Or an ambush out in the field. Then there was the time Arcee had infiltrated the ship and poisoned their energon rations. The officers had all been ill, and about twenty Citizens had died. Shockwave and Soundwave had worked tirelessly to increase their shielding and their cloaking devices after that unpleasant incident.

 _Back when Shockwave could be relied upon,_ Airachnid thought with a bitter twist of a smile. _By the Pit, back when_ Soundwave _could be relied upon._

Not that she blamed Soundwave. His . . . eccentricities . . . were not his fault. Sometimes, despite his silence, he was nearly the same Soundwave she remembered, sending her amusing little videos he found on the Humans' interconnected network, or self-made pictures of Skyquake or Starscream with mustaches drawn on them. Other times, he was . . . the new Soundwave, the one that forced you to acknowledge, every second, that his face was now a blank mask, that you didn't know what was going on behind that mask, and that you never would. Trauma said it was all normal—the silence, the unnatural stillness, the way Soundwave would sometimes just walk away from his post or from conversations, the way he obsessively tuned up his mini-bots and kept pouring over designs for new ones.

"He _is_ improving," Trauma insisted. "If you compare his most recent therapy sessions to the ones six months ago . . ." But he could not promise that Soundwave would ever fully recover; he refused to even address Soundwave's reluctance to speak. "Give him time," he kept saying. "Give him time."

And time kept passing. Six months. Yeah, that was when everything started to go to slag. Six months ago. _Thanks a lot, Autobots._ And always, in the back of her mind, Airachnid found herself adding, _Thanks a lot, Shockwave._

"Hey, spider-lady," a deep voice said, interrupting her thoughts.

"Hello, Skyquake." She turned, mildly surprised—not by the green and white jet's presence, she had heard him coming from a mile away, but that he was awake at this late hour.

"You patrolling?"

"Always."

"Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all."

The jet walked alongside her, his footsteps heavy and echoing. His official title was Vanguard; Starscream had come up with that one, a tactful way to avoid giving him the same position as his deceased brother, who had been their Scout. Screamy's finicky diplomacy always made Airachnid a little scornful; Skyquake wasn't stupid, he surely knew it was the same job.

"Quiet tonight," she said now. Skyquake wanted something from her, that much was obvious, but there was no need to rush him. She was patient. She was a spider. She waited.

They stopped just short of the library sector, drawing to one side to allow three Citizens to pass. They were the typical jet-frames, burnt orange with grey metal faceplates and shy, slightly nervous smiles. Part of the cleaning crew, judging by the supplies gathered in their spindly arms. Skyquake muttered a greeting as they hurried past. Airachnid just nodded. She could be more of a comfort to them by keeping her mystique intact than by fraternizing.

When the generics were out of sight, Skyquake turned to the Security Director. "I want to be there when he's questioned."

Airachnid tilted her white and yellow helm innocently. "Who, now?"

"Don't," growled Skyquake, his deep voice dropping to an even lower octave. "Not over this. You know who I mean. Yellowjacket."

"Actually his name is Bumblebee, or so we've been informed."

"I don't give a scrap what his name is. I want to be there."

"Why?" Airachnid put a hand on her hip.

"Why? Why do you think?"

"I think it's because you want revenge or some slag like that, and we both know that Megatron isn't going to allow that."

Skyquake scowled. "It's . . . not about vengeance," he said after an extended silence. "I'm just curious."

"Mm-hmm, right. Makes sense. That explains why you're all agog over _Yellowjacket_ but haven't shown one byte of interest in Doc Knock-Off." She started walking again, her strides long and measured. Skyquake once again fell into pace beside her, his chevron-like brow drawn down over his blue eyes in a frown.

"I want to see if it's the same bot."

"It isn't. Knockdown's tests—"

"I don't give a slag about tests, I want to SEE this . . . this _clone_ with my own optics," Skyquake spat. "Even if he is a different frame, that doesn't necessarily make him a different bot, you know?"

"Are you suggesting a spark transfer?" Airachnid raised an eyebrow. "That wouldn't explain how we have two of these interlopers. One being a copy of our medical officer."

"I don't know what I'm suggesting, I just know I have to see for myself."

Airachnid rolled her optics at Skyquake's stubbornness. Truly, this mech had a one-track mind. "So why come to me?"

"Huh?"

"Why come to me?" she repeated, her yellow and green spider legs raising and dropping in a shrug to emphasize the question. "Why not go to Knockdown? The medical bay is _his_ little domain, after all." When the Seeker didn't answer, she said wryly, "You already asked him, didn't you?"

"I _did,"_ Skyquake finally admitted, in a growl. "And do you know what that . . . that MINI-BOT . . . said? He said it was a 'ridiculous notion' and that I'd be a 'distraction to everyone' and 'would probably offline the patient given half a chance.'"

"Well," the femme said pointedly.

"And then he used his _sniffy voice_ and said it was a moot point anyway, because I was too big. Too big!" He pounded his fist into his palm. "Megatron will be there! How am _I_ too big compared to Megatron?"

"Maybe he feels that Megatron fulfills the 'giant bots' quota," Airachnid suggested. "Really, Skyquake, I _still_ don't know what you want from me. I'm afraid you're overestimating my abilities—or rank—if you think I can overrule Knockdown's decisions on his own turf. Why aren't you talking to Screamy? You might— _might_ —just change the good doctor's mind if our glorious Air Commander appealed on your behalf." When Skyquake remained silent, she added, "Don't tell me you talked to her already too."

"No. I wouldn't have a chance with her, I know that. I was hoping that you could talk to Megatron for me. If he _ordered_ Knockdown to let me in—"

"—then there is a very good chance our little blue tyrant of the med bay would refuse Megatron to his face," Airachnid smirked. "Certainly if he thought it would compromise his 'patient.' Never cross a medic."

"Hr-rm. Maybe Megatron could ask Commander Starscream to convince him," Skyquake said after a pause.

"Skyquake. You just suggested that I convince Megatron to convince Starscream to convince Knockdown." She ticked off each individual on her fingers. "A plan with three layers of convincing necessary to succeed. Honey. No. Ah-ah-ah!" She raised a finger to forestall his protests. "Face it, it's not going to happen. However . . . if there are any questions you want me to ask on your behalf, I _might_ be willing. As long as they aren't stupid questions."

Skyquake's jaw moved from side to side. "All right," he said finally. "Ask him . . . how he's related to Yellowjacket. Make sure he isn't Yellowjacket—"

"Don't you think I'd do that anyway? Come on, give me some credit here."

"Sorry." He lapsed into thought. His brows drew down until his eyes were reduced to two pinpricks of blue. "The truth. Just find out the truth."

* * *

The miles poured by under the golden wings of the Cybertronian jet as it flew far above the clouds, away from curious Human eyes. Megatron could have used the ground bridge, but he was unwilling to disturb Soundwave's recharge. Starscream would have helped him, of course, if he'd asked, and she could keep secrets. But his Air Commander would have had _opinions_ about his mission, and she could express her opinions very well with no more than the raising of an optic ridge and the thinning of her lips. And she would never, ever have let him go alone.

His Decepticons all worried about him so, as though he were a sculpture made of spun glass rather than a gladiator who had clawed his way out of the Pits of Kaon. Their desire to protect him was amusing and touching, if misplaced. But at times a little stifling as well.

Sometimes it was good to fly solo.

This was one of the reasons he had never requested, let alone ordered, Shockwave's return. The scientist would come back when he was ready. In the meantime, Shockwave was always "a little late". A little late to meetings, to missions, to anyplace where his presence would have been logical. (Megatron's lips quirked in amusement and regret at the very thought of that oh-so-familiar word.) Even irreverent Airachnid kept up the pretense, for the most part—that Shockwave was in his lab on the ship or just around the corner of the corridors somewhere. Just a little late. Just a little delayed.

 _If only he was,_ Megatron thought, transforming and landing with a thud in front of a patch of blackberry bushes. He pushed through them without hesitation as the thorns scraped and screeched at his plating. The entrance to the cave was well-hidden and well-protected, not only by the shrubs but by the way the tunnels inside branched and divided. But Megatron did not hesitate. He knew the way.

The tunnel opened up into a cavern, lit by the energon crystals studding the walls. Megatron had once considered mining the area, but the instability of the mountain made it impractical. Now, he took some comfort in the knowledge that Shockwave had a steady supply of energon available for his personal consumption. Assuming he was here somewhere.

The Decepticon leader slowed his steps, listening to the drip-drop of limey water off the stalactites and the quiet rustle of the small Earth creatures clinging to the dark roof far above. A computer monitor flickered at one end of the cave, but all it displayed was a topographic map of the surrounding hills.

"Shockwave?" Megatron called.

The echo of his voice was the only answer.

"Shockwave." His voice rumbled more softly this time, like distant thunder. "We desire—need—your help. You have received the information I sent? About our two . . . discoveries?"

Silence.

"Consider your duty."

This time he heard something, but it wasn't a voice; just a soft chittering at his feet. Looking down, he saw a small organic making weak crawling motions on the floor. It was a ridiculous looking thing, a tiny body framed by long stick-like fingers with a thin, almost transparent membrane of skin wrinkled or stretched between them, depending on whether its limbs were at its sides or outstretched. The pink, wrinkled skin of infancy was visible under a sparse layer of hair, and its eyes were pale and bulbous. It was ugly.

It was helpless.

Megatron knelt down, setting his servo flat and nudging the tiny creature into his palm. Its small, pink mouth opened in protest as it uttered squeaks on a higher frequency than any sound he had heard from an Earth creature to date.

"Perhaps you will grow up to become a Seeker, little one," Megatron chuckled. "I see you are already testing your radar."

He moved over to the wall and lifted the organic as high as his arm would reach. It reached out blindly with its tiny limbs, its claws hooking onto the rocky wall. The roof of the cave—and its kin—were still high above, out of reach, but Megatron could only do what he could do. Hopefully it would be enough.

He turned around. The cavern was still empty, but the image on the computer monitor had changed. The map had been replaced with a blank black screen, and on it two lines of green text, all in caps.

"THE TWO YOU FOUND ARE NOT MINE."

And under that: "I WILL MAKE INQUIRIES."

Megatron read the message in silence before turning on his heel. He had a long flight back.

* * *

At the medical bay, the morning was not off to an auspicious start.

Knockdown had told Trauma to open up the med bay two hours early, so they could double-check that everything was in order and start to bring "Bumblebee" out of sedation. Dragging himself to the med bay while his optics were still fuzzy from recharge had put Trauma in a bad mood.

The red grounder, Knock Out, was already awake and seemed a little moody too, more withdrawn than the day before. He gave Trauma that increasingly familiar sideways glance, like he was simultaneously looking at him and not seeing him, before announcing, with a newfound bluntness, that he'd like to have a look around.

"Hint, hint," he added meaningfully, jerking at the stasis cuff on his wrist. It was hard to say which of them, Trauma or Knock Out, looked more surprised when this simple action caused the side rail of the berth to fall off with a loud clang.

"By the Allspark . . ." Trauma pressed his hand to his helm. He unfastened the stasis cuff from the rail and lifted it, trying to fit it into place and keep an eye on Knock Out at the same time.

"Hm. Don't build 'em like they used to," the clone observed, tapping his chin. He slid off the berth and held the railing as Trauma bolted it back into place.

"There!" the lavender jet said. "That'll hold for now. Now—back on the berth."

"Really? Do you _really_ think that's necessary, doctor? I mean, I appreciate your caution, 'enemy _clone'_ , and so forth, but surely you can see I'm not a threat." Gleaming denta appeared as he smiled winningly.

"Come on, don't be like that." Trauma said. "It's for your own safety too." He made a shooing motion towards the berth and was surprised when Knock Out didn't move.

"How long?" The red mech smiled a little wider, but his smile seemed strained. "Not that I don't appreciate being chained up 'for my own good', but . . . how much longer?"

"Not long now," Trauma said, which could have been the truth for all he knew. He looked at the red bot a little closer, studying his optics and his stiff posture. "Are you in pain?"

Knock Out put his hands on his hips as he leaned forward, all in one sudden snap. "Of course I'm in _pain,_ what do you _think!"_ Then, perhaps noting Trauma's dumbfounded expression, he leaned back and turned the smile back on. " . . . although I appreciate everything you've done for me, of course."

"Well, why didn't you say something? I'll get you some painkiller."

"Oh? _Oh."_ Knock Out raised his optic ridges, looking unsettled. "Well . . . thank you."

Trauma shrugged off the thanks, a bit bemused by Knock Out's reactions. But he supposed it made sense. Rumor had it the Autobots received minimal (and painful) medical care from their medic, Ratchet. Primus only knew how they'd treat a clone. So he spoke kindly the red mech. "Where does it hurt?"

"My back." Knock Out grimaced.

"That doesn't surprise me. We pulled a lot of debris out yesterday and it's often worse during recovery." Trauma moved over to the medical supply cabinets and punched in a code. Knock Out followed after him.

"Well, being tethered down doesn't help, you know," the red bot groused. His eyes were roaming over the considerable contents of the cabinet, which was so crammed with bottles, pills, and powders that Trauma had to keep taking supplies out as he searched around for what he wanted. "I do have _wheels_ behind my shoulders, you know. Doesn't make for a comfortable recharge, lying on my _back."_

Trauma picked up a bottle, double-checking its contents. "How do you normally recharge?"

"In vehicle mode, naturally."

Trauma looked at him in surprise, then reminded himself that as an automobile, this was a perfectly viable option for Knock Out. Seekers had to be a bit more aware of space limitations. Nothing quite like the pain of your wings slamming into the walls as you shifted to alt mode.

"Well, you're still in no shape to transform, but we'll try to make you more comfortable tonight," Trauma said. "In the meantime, drink this."

The gentle aqua hue of the Ultramin caught the light as he measured out a dose into a small plastic cup. Trauma felt a surge of pride at his choice. Not only would it ease Knock Out's pain, but the side effect—heavy drowsiness—would keep the clone quiet and docile while Bumblebee was being "interviewed" in the next room.

"Ah. Yes. Thank you." Knock Out's eyes rested briefly on the bottle. "Oops!" His fingers slipped, sending the cup toppling to the ground.

"Knock Out. Oh, scrap," Trauma sighed, reaching for a rag. He dropped it and rubbed it around with his pede, mopping up the spill.

"Sorry, I'm still getting used to the unexpected manicure." Knock Out flared his fingers, both in apology and to display the neatly sheered ends of his digits. "But don't worry, I've got this." And in one fluid movement he picked up a bottle of clear pink liquid, flipped the top, and took a generous swig.

"KNOCK OUT!" Trauma slapped a hand to his helm in horror. "What the frag did you just do?! Oh Primus, oh Primus on a pulley, what the frag did you drink, you stupid—" He wrenched the bottle from the red grounder's unresisting hand, slopping pink liquid over his servos in his haste to flip the bottle around and check its contents.

Knock Out had the gall to look amused. AMUSED. "Well, what's the diagnosis, doctor? Am I going to die?"

"You could have!" Trauma snapped. "This isn't a game, understand? There's antiseptic in here, salves—if you'd drunk something topical, you'd be having your fuel tank pumped out right now!"

Knock Out looked slightly remorseful. "I'm sorry. Very sorry. Very, very sorry. Very, very, _very_ —"

"I get it. You're sorry." Trauma screwed the lid back on the bottle. _"Fortunately,_ you happened to pick up a bottle of Petralodin. A painkiller."

"Lucky!" Knock Out's grin was cocky.

Trauma felt a pang of frustration. This mech, this new-build, just didn't get how much danger he'd been in. And in addition, he'd be wide awake when the officers arrived. Wonderful. "All right, back to the berth."

"Oh, come on. Let me help clean up, at least." He reached for a box of pills. Trauma swept it out from under his fingers.

"No, Knock Out."

"Can't I just—?"

"No."

"Fiiiine . . ." The red clone slunk back to the med berth with an air of petulance. Trauma had just finished clipping the stasis cuff to the rail (he hoped to Primus it wouldn't fall off again), when Ampule and Jumpstart entered the med bay.

"Where have you been? You're late!" Trauma was ready to take out his mood on someone, and the twins' tardiness made them the perfect target. "No—don't even start," he added as their excuses started to tumble forth. "Just—get into the Auxiliary and get Bumblebee off that morphite feed, stat!"

"Yessir!"

"Right away!"

Watching them fairly flee into the next room, Trauma was struck by a sudden, uncomfortable thought. Strictly speaking, no one had ever told Knock Out that they were holding his fellow clone, Bumblebee. They had sort of hinted that Yellowjacket's double was safe and alive, and Knock Out had sort of hinted that he knew Bumblebee was nearby; but no one had actually come out and _said_ anything. Certainly no one had told him that Bumblebee was just one room away. Trauma glanced over to see how the red mech was taking it.

Knock Out was gazing after the jet twins with slightly lowered brows. He didn't look angry, just thoughtful.

And possibly, just possibly, a little worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, lookie here, I inspired someone (Kagekirite) to [finish a Shattered Glass Knock Out picture](http://kagekirite.deviantart.com/art/From-the-other-side-of-the-mirror-388887679). How exciting? SO EXCITING.


	14. The Windows to the Soul

COLOUR CODING is very important in Fantasyland. Always pay close attention to the colour of CLOTHING, hair, and eyes of anyone you meet . . . Blue eyes are always GOOD, the bluer the more Good present . . . Red eyes can _never_ be disguised.  They are EVIL and surprisingly common.

\- Diana Wynne Jones, _The Tough Guide to Fantasyland_

* * *

 

There were two of them, when he came to.  Jets.  Watching him.

Just like at Tyger Pax.

His optics dimmed as he sank back into unconsciousness—a lapse of only a minute or two, just long enough for the blue jet's fingers  to have steepled and for the lavender jet's wings to have dropped slightly.  Tiny changes.  But ones scouts were trained to observe.  He tried to test his bonds, but it was hard to move.

Not just his arms, either; Bumblebee's head felt strangely heavy, refusing to lift or turn, so he just kept gazing at the jets sitting against the wall.  They must have had different transforms; the Decepticon insignias were right side up on the blue one's wings, upside down on the light purple's.  Underneath each faction sigil (or above it, in the case of the lavender jet) was painted a white cog with eight square teeth, outlined in blue—the Iatric, the universal symbol of the medical profession. 

But medics didn't necessarily equal safety.  At his interrogation, at Tyger Pax, the scout had caught flashes of the twin black jets watching from the background as Megatron's tarnished silver claws dug for Bumblebee's spark or balled into pummeling fists.  To this day the Autobot did not know if the jets had been male or female, what their faces looked like, or how big they had been;  Bumblebee had been on a rapid slide towards spark extinction any time Megatron had called the aerials over.  But those triangular wings were burned into his memory.  Wings cutting the smoke above him, so graceful and sharp, displaying the Iatric—not in the usual white, but in optic-searing cyan—pure, neon, in-your-face cyan, the color of fresh spilled energon.

 _Blood-red,_ thought Bumblebee in a fit of inspiration, staring at a white cog with the Decepticon brand looming above it.  _That's what I'd say, if I were telling Raf about it.  To a human, it would be like blood-red. But we bleed energon, so for us it's blood-blue._   He never planned on telling Raf that story, though.  Ever.

His entire body gave a jerk as the Decepticon insignia he was gazing at suddenly loomed closer.  The blue aerial was standing, moving closer to the medical berth.  Half-turning to his companion, he spoke as he reached to fiddle with something high above Bumblebee's head.

Bumblebee tried to make sense of the words washing over his audials, but they were a distant and meaningless tide.  His spark jolted as the Seeker's helm dipped into his field of vision.  Two round irises on a black background, a shark's fin helm, and was there something wrong with his optics because everything was blue . . .

 _Oh, blue eyes!  Thank goodness, we're safe forever!_ a sarcastic voice echoed in his memory.  And, _Of course I have a double.  He's the ship's CMO._

Knock Out. For some reason his static-filled processor couldn't grasp, he had been talking to Megatron's medic, Knock Out.  And this was . . . Knock Out's clone?  Bumblebee had a confused impression that clones had come into that conversation.  Like, a lot.  He tried to concentrate, tried to fight through the mental fog.

"Can you hear me?" The blue jet even sounded like Knock Out, except his inflection was all wrong and his voice was too quiet.  "My name is Knockdown.  I'm a doctor."

Bumblebee stared at him in silence.

"You're safe.  Your friend, too. No one will hurt you."

Bumblebee managed to move his arms a little. Not far—"far" was not even an option—just enough to make a white sheen run over his glowing bonds as his wrists pressed against them in feeble protest.  Maybe the jet would take the hint and release him.

Instead Knockdown glanced sideways and his face withdrew.  With a supreme effort, Bumblebee turned his head to face the ceiling, trying to dredge his memories.  There was a question, an important question, that he couldn't remember, couldn't grasp.

His optic ridges slanted in concentration.  He was a prisoner.  He was being watched.  By Decepticon jets. ( _Like at Tyger Pax._ No, shut up, he wasn't there.) Knock Out was around somewhere and . . . also a prisoner?  Yes.  Bumblebee remembered the stasis cuff swinging from his wrist.  Little snippets of conversation came back to him.

 _These Decepticons are very congenial._   Followed up, paradoxically, by _They tied you down like a science experiment, what does that tell you?_

He wasn't sure what it told him.  Nothing good.

Knockdown's face shifted into his line of sight again.  "Can you hear me?" he asked, the same words as before.  "I'm Knockdown.  A medic."

Bumblebee again remained mute.  All he could think about was that there was something vital he was forgetting, some question that should have been obvious. 

The blue Decepticon gave a muted huff after a moment, his hands (long, sharp fingers, but neither as long nor as sharp as Knock Out's) reaching upwards to adjust something almost out of the Autobot's field of vision.  Bumblebee tilted his head back and saw that it was a clear bag of energon hanging from a hook— _no, wait,_ there was a _smaller_ bag hanging off the same stand and Knockdown's nimble fingers were adjusting an unassuming rectangle of plastic attached to the flexible tube that ran down from the bag.  The tube was threaded through a gap in the rectangle, a gap that was wide at one end and tapered down to a narrow slot at the other.  Even through the haze, Bumblebee could appreciate the beautiful simplicity of it.  Slide the tube into the widest part to allow for maximum flow, or press it into the narrower part to pinch the tubing shut.

Or, as it stood now, adjust it until it was halfway between.

 _What is the question?  Why can't I remember it?_ he had been asking himself.  But now, in a flash of insight, he realized that WAS the question.  The question was:  **Why can't I remember?**

The reason he couldn't remember, the reason his processor was struggling like a car desperately trying to start in below-zero weather, swayed above him in a small, clear, plastic bag. 

 _I am being drugged,_ he thought calmly.  Somewhere in the depths of his processor his baser instincts wailed and howled.

 _It's morphite,_ Knock Out's voice whispered helpfully.  _It took three shots to get you up, FYI._  

Three shots of what, exactly, Bumblebee couldn't recall.  It didn't matter.  What mattered was that Knock Out had dragged him quickly to full consciousness, and these bots could do the same.  _Could_ , but weren't going to.  They would nudge him up until he was just coherent and confused enough to answer all their questions.  An old interrogation technique.  His spark shivered in fear.  All his confidence from—the previous night?  the previous week?—he had no way of knowing—seemed rash and flimsy.

 _They're scared of you,_ a memory of Knock Out drawled, only not quite a memory because he had sounded angry at the time, not self-satisfied.

Bumblebee dropped his head to the side and was greeted with the sight of the lavender jet flinching.  Apparently Knock Out had been at least partially correct.  But if the purple jet had reacted, the sky-blue Seeker, Knockdown, just studied him with cool eyes, looking like every actor who had ever played "the emotionless, icily evil Decepticon scientist who will experiment you to death for curiosity's sake" in an Autobot propaganda piece. Aside from the fact that his wings were real rather than props, of course.

 _Blue optics. Blue optics, though._ Bumblebee clung to this fact with some desperation.  _That has to count for something, right?_ The part of him that had lost its innocence and voice box at Tyger Pax scoffed in silent disdain.

Knockdown moved over to him once more.  This time Bumblebee noticed that, despite his apparent calm, the jet was taking care not to get too close to him when he leaned over. 

"Can you hear me?"  He frowned at the continued lack of response and reached up to readjust the slide clamp a little before running a scanner over the Autobot.

 _That's right, you just keep dialing down the dosage,_ Bumblebee thought, his thoughts becoming less hazy. _Hey, why don't you dial it down to nothing?_

The faint sound of voices came from the other side of the metal door.  "Hmm, they're here." Knockdown moved towards the door.  "Watch him and let me know when he's more . . . lively."

"Ah, me?" The purple jet looked startled. 

"I have to run interference."

"Ummm.  All right."

"He's restrained, Trauma."

"I know."

"I'll be right outside."

"I'll be fine.  Better go, Doc, sounds like the natives are restless."

Knockdown nodded and exited, leaving Bumblebee alone with the purple jet, Trauma.

Trauma. Now there was a good, solid Decepticon name.  Exactly what a 'Con medic _would_ choose.  Why go with Lifeline or Remedy when you could call yourself Gut Wound or Trauma or Blunt-Force-to-the-Head?

 _Blue eyes,_ Bumblebee reminded himself weakly.  _Blue eyes._

* * *

 

Blue eyes.

Trauma never would have thought they could be so creepy.

Maybe it was because he was used to "screener" eyes, digital eyes, while these were so _mechanical_.  Maybe it was the way "Bumblebee" never blinked.  Maybe it was just that those eyes were the only living feature in a face without a mouth.

Or maybe it was the way the black and yellow mech kept staring at him.

Trauma really, really wished he wouldn't.

"Well.  Hello there," the medic said in the face of that unnerving stare and for lack of anything else to do.  "My name is Trauma."

The stranger's mechanical irises cycled open a little bit more.

"I'm part of the medical staff.  The ship's psychologist." 

That was overstating it a bit.  Trauma had barely completed his specialization before being sucked into the war.  As he had been assigned to a field unit that dragged the wounded out of the heat of battle, his career had mostly involved patching up bodies (and ducking enemy fire) rather than addressing the woes of the mind.  He had plenty of work on the _Heretic_ , between the Citizens and poor Soundwave, but secretly he felt entirely out of his depth.  It was so different dealing with real Cybertronians instead of theoretical cases . . .

He looked at the bot before him with new thoughtfulness. This was another one who would likely be added to his roster, if he remained on the ship.  Surely an Autobot clone would be seething with issues.  But he wasn't sure if he liked the idea of being trapped alone with a Yellowjacket lookalike during sessions . . .

"What's your name?" he asked, trying to sound friendly rather than nervous.  This was always one of the first questions the medics asked a mech coming off drugs.  A simple question and a simple way to give the patient a sense of control. (Also a sign to lower the dosage if the patient answered incorrectly.)

The unnerving optics whirred again, the blue light in them growing and shrinking as the mechanical shutters flared.  Unexpectedly, he produced a series of beeps.

Trauma blinked.  "What?"

The second time he caught the words.

_" I said, my name is Bumblebee."_

Trauma broke into a grin of relief.  This was NOT Yellowjacket.  This was _so very much_ not Yellowjacket.  It wasn't the name that filled him with relief (he had already known it, via Knock Out), but the fact that the prisoner's coded speech pattern was nothing like Yellowjacket's snarling, buzzing, terrifying screeches.  _Bumblebee_ spoke in a burble of beeps, clicks, and whirrs.  _Bumblebee's_ vocalizations were positively _cute._

_"Is something funny?"_

Trauma leaned forward a little, still smiling.  "Your voice." 

The resulting glare was like a punch to the spark, two concentrated spotlights of pure animosity.  For a second Trauma just reeled; then he grabbed a datapad at random and pulled it close.  He hoped Knockdown would return before the Autobot's stare melted through the plastic.

* * *

 

Starscream was peeved. 

If Lord Megatron wanted to go haring off on his own, the least he could do was inform her.  She was his Second-in-Command, for goodness sake!  But no, once again he had cravenly snuck out, leaving only a note that he would be back "soon."  No mention of his coordinates, naturally.  No mention of what he was doing, naturally.  No one with him as backup, naturally.  The mech was infuriating.

"Someday," she muttered as she stalked towards the medical bay, "someday he is going to push his luck _too far,_ and then where will we be?"

"Who's going too far?"

Starscream turned to see Airachnid sauntering up.

 _"You're_ surprisingly punctual," Starscream said, avoiding the question.  It would never do to encourage dissention in the ranks, particularly not from Airachnid, who was insolent enough as it was.

"Call me curious."

"Curious," a voice repeated behind them—Airachnid's own, but slightly distorted.  The two femmes turned in surprise to find Soundwave silently following them. 

"Soundwave!" Airachnid said.  She and Starscream glanced at each other.  "Coming along for the interro—"

"A- _hem,"_ Starscream coughed into her fist.

"—for the show?"

The faceless mech nodded as the med bay doors hissed open for them.

The little red clone looked up as they entered.  He was cuffed to the berth with a few datapads beside him, probably courtesy of Knockdown or Trauma, as well as a stack of Human comic books, definitely courtesy of Jumpstart.  The twins themselves were off to the side, refilling one of the supply cabinets.

As for Knock Out, something about the party, perhaps its official air, seemed to have dampened his garrulous nature.  He only commented, "Hail, hail, the gang's all here!" before returning to his reading.  But his red optics peeked out from behind the datapad now and again.

"So where's our glorious leader?" Airachnid said, glancing around.  "I figured he'd be waiting for us."

"Megatron," Starscream said regally, "had a very important matter to attend to, so he will be a little late—"

"Actually a little late, or 'Shockwave' a little late?"

 _"Airachnid!"_   Starscream's brows lowered.  "Must you . . . 'go there'?" 

"It's what I do best.  Tell me, tall, dark, and airborne, did Skyquake talk to you last night?"

"Last night?" Starscream hoisted an eyebrow. "No.  Why?"

"He wanted to join us—"  

"—and he's not going to," Knockdown finished, striding into the main part of the lab.  "I told him as much.  I hope you'll agree, Air Commander?" 

"Completely," she said, dismissing the idea with a wave of her hand.  "And you overstepped your bounds, Airachnid, if you led him to believe otherwise."

"I didn't 'lead him to believe' anything—" Airachnid began, crossing her arms, only to be interrupted by a cough.

"Um, Doc . . ." Trauma stood framed in the door to the Auxiliary, giving Knockdown a questioning look with a bit of a plea in it.

"Hm." The CMO turned back to the other officers. "Where's Megatron?"

"Taking one of his infamous night flights, apparently,"  said Airachnid.

"Well.  Let's not wait for him. You two—stay out here," he told Ampule and Jumpstart.  Then he quickened his pace to a trot, reaching the Auxiliary before the other officers.  "Well?" he asked Trauma in an undertone.

"Awake and able to talk—er, communicate," Trauma murmured.  "But maybe not willing to."

"We'll cross that airstream when we come to it."  Knockdown slipped past him to examine the patient.  The stranger's large, blue optics were more focused now, tracking the medic as he moved to the edge of the berth. 

"There are some bots here who would like to talk to you."  Knockdown spoke slowly and clearly.  "No need to be frightened.  We won't hurt you.  I'm Knockdown; I'm in charge of the medical bay.  This is Trauma; he's a medic as well."

No comment from the patient.  His eyes shifted to the doorway as the other officers entered.

"And here's Air Commander Starscream and Airachnid—" Knockdown purposely left off her title, too intimidating, "And . . . Soundwave?"  Had he been there the whole time?  Knockdown hadn't even noticed.  "Soundwave. Our Communications Officer."

"In other words, half the brass is here to see you.  Don't you feel honored?"  Airachnid cocked her head, her hand on her hip.  Coincidentally, this also put her hand near her blaster.

The patient didn't answer the yellow and green spider-femme.  Like Knock Out, his first reaction was to gaze in fascination at Starscream.  Perhaps some side effect of the clone programming?

The black jet was not perturbed in the least by the attention.  She stepped forward, the lines of her golden faceplate catching the light as she bent for a better look.  "And now you have the advantage of us.  You know our name but we don't know yours." An untruth, but a polite one.

The black and yellow mech produced a burst of static that sounded distinctly like a snort as he jerked his wrists against the restraints.  

"Some advantage. Take these off and maybe we can talk."

The officers exchanged glances—surprise at the voice, consternation at the words.

"I'm afraid that is impossible."  Starscream drew herself up to her full, considerable height.  "Later, certainly.  When we are . . . better acquainted."

"We won't be getting any better acquainted unless you untie me."

Airachnid's optics narrowed.  "Not going to happen, Waspinator."

"Okay, first, that's not my name.  Second, there are four of you and one of me.  What are you afraid of?"

Knockdown noted that he had missed one Decepticon in his count and guessed it was Soundwave, who had unobtrusively placed himself in the corner by the monitor.

"You should be flattered," Airachnid suggested.

"It's nothing personal," Starscream said, tapping one finger on her thin arm.  "It's merely . . . protocol."

"Exactly," said Airachnid.  "As our prisoner—"

 _"Guest,"_ said Starscream.

"Patient," corrected Knockdown.

"Like I can't SEE that I'm a prisoner." The grounder tugged at his bonds again.

"Knockdown." Starscream leaned down to whisper, though her eyes never left the black and yellow mech.  "If we did unloose him—?"

"I would _strongly_ advise against it," the blue medic muttered back.  "We didn't fit him with a stasis cuff.  Standard procedure," he added defensively as her eyebrows lowered. "The hard-light bonds inhibit transformation anyway, and they would short out a 'cuff.  It was one or the other—"

"Uh, Doc?" Trauma whispered.  "I think it's about to be 'neither.'"

Knockdown didn't have to ask what he meant; one glance across the room told him.  Soundwave's long fingers were slowly, one by one, settling on a certain dial on the control panel.  There was a moment of perfect stillness as he watched the yellow and black bot; then his fingers snapped hard to the left.  The glowing blue restraints instantly flickered out, like a light being turned off.

The stranger's optics swiveled down in surprise, then he sat up, rubbing his wrists. Airachnid, on the other hand, facepalmed.

"Well, that's more like it." The grounder looked up; lacking a mouth, his expression was basically unreadable. It was hard to say if his next words were meant to be insolent or merely cheeky. "Didn't you have some questions for me?"

The others started in surprise when an answering series of beeps sounded, but it was only Soundwave, quoting the bot's own words.  _"'My name.'"_

"Bumblebee."  And with that simple statement the yellow grounder tugged the morphite feed out of his arm.

The medics tensed.

"Trauma." Knockdown gripped the purple jet's arm, pulling him back from the others.  The CMO's voice was so quiet that he could barely hear his own words. "Get the twins out of here."

"But—"

"Tell them you need help finding something in the lower storage room. And take your time."

"I'm not leaving."

"That was a direct order, so yes you are."  He gave Trauma's arm a slight shake. "It's just a precaution, understand?"

"Yes."

"I know how to deal with unruly patients."

"I know you do."

He gave him a little shove towards the door. "Go."

Trauma went.

Knockdown edged his way back to the front of the group.  That put his staff out of harm's way.  Now he just needed to keep things under control.

"Do you really expect us to believe that you _weren't_ attacking Starscream and Soundwave when you _shot at them?"_ Airachnid was asking.

"I wasn't shooting AT them, I was just trying to get their attention!  I had a severely injured mech on my hands!"

"That _would_ explain why the blasts seemed so ill-aimed," the Air Commander mused.

"Listen, I'm not your enemy here!"

"We know, we know," Starscream said soothingly.

"We _don't_ know," Airachnid interrupted grimly.

"Airachnid. Calm down."  Knockdown turned to Bumblebee, searching for a question that would settle him. Something straightforward, without any lashings of accusation. "Tell us how you were injured."

Bumblebee hesitated a few seconds before speaking.  His tale was essentially the same as Knock Out's. His injuries had mostly been sustained fighting Vehicons.  Knock Out's lengthy monologue about his allegiance was definitely abridged in Bumblebee's version of the tale, though.  ("Like an idiot, he marched into the middle of them and announced he was a Decepticon, and they shot him in the back.  And the front.  Pretty much everywhere.")  After that they had briefly faced off with Smokescreen, but miraculously managed to escape.  Bumblebee was vague on the specifics; he just said, "We outran him."

"And then I stepped out for some air and came back to find Knock Out . . . like that, and, well, you know the rest," he finished.

" Well now. You have my formal apologies for the airstrike," the Air Commander said.  "Now . . . tell us what you know about Yellowjacket."

"I don't know any mech called Yellowjacket." His voice was firm.

"No? Well, it might surprise you to learn that said mech looked almost exactly like yourself," said Starscream.

"Then again," Airachnid broke in, a shrewd look in her eyes, "maybe not.  You don't seem real surprised at meeting a Decepticon Seeker who looks just like your friend, after all."

Bumblebee's frame seemed to tense; then he hunched forward with a little warble, as though he was letting out a deep breath.  "What I'm about to tell you is going to sound really weird.  You might not believe me at first . . ."

"Try us," Starscream said.  "I think you'll find we know most of it already."

"Yes, tell us your tale." Megatron's deep voice came from the doorway.  "I, for one, am most interested to hear it."  He strode into the room.

Bumblebee didn't think about bringing his stingers out.  They were just suddenly _there,_ humming against his plating as he set his sights on the looming Decepticon.

"Nix the weapon right the slag NOW, Autobot."  Airachnid's blaster was in her hand, her spider legs spread wide and glinting with steel.

"For once we agree," Starscream's voice was clipped and cold, her null rays and plasma blasters centered on Bumblebee.  She had positioned herself in front of Megatron, her wings raised aggressively.  Even Soundwave stalked forward, his tentacles uncurling from his chest.

And Megatron, a grand and golden target who was simply too large for his troops to shield . . . stood with his hands clasped behind him, smiling at Bumblebee.  That awful, familiar, _confident_ smile. 

The one that said: don't even bother.

Nothing you can do can hurt me.

I've already won.

_Tyger Pax . . ._

"Megatron."  Part of him knew this wasn't the _same_ Megatron, and he'd known there'd BE a Megatron around somewhere, but not like this.  Not like this.  A Megatron who was younger, slimmer, had less sharp edges, maybe one who wasn't a gladiator, a Decepticon Optimus Prime . . .

"Lord Megatron, please stay back—"

"Just let us handle this, Megatron, we've got this—"

"Megatron: danger."

Megatron simply walked forward, parting their ranks like a warship sweeping sailboats out of its path.  "I like this one.  He has spirit."

Bumblebee's tank lurched at the words, his processor crawling with memories.  His shaking hands were aimed right at that pitted, scarred face, and Megatron was still smiling, still smiling—

"Megatron."  The word was respectful and sharp at the same time.  "Could I ask you to step back from my patient?  I believe you're upsetting him."  Knockdown's arms were crossed and the inflection on "my patient" was slightly possessive.  My _patient._ MY patient.

Megatron's smile widened still further, revealing a glint of his sharp, slightly jagged teeth, but he said, "Of course, doctor," and took a few, small paces back.

Knockdown turned and looked at Bumblebee, who still had his weapons raised and activated. The medic didn't say anything. Just _looked._

Bumblebee slowly lowered his weapons.  _You KNOW he's not the same, you idiot!  Blue eyes!_   He wanted to apologize, but he couldn't, not to Megatron, not to "good" Megatron, not to "bad" Megatron, not to any Megatron.  He just couldn't.

"I think," Knockdown said, easing around the berth, "that we've had enough questions for now." 

In his peripheral vision, Bumblebee saw the medic's slow, careful reach for the morphite drip.  Knockdown's fingers had just brushed the tubing when the Autobot's hand shot out, grabbing his wrist and jerking him close.  Bumblebee could see his blazing blue eyes reflected in the Decepticon's frozen-wide optics.

"No.  NO DRUGS." 

A hand gripped his shoulder and pulled, spinning Bumblebee around and, as a consequence, wrenching Knockdown against the side of the berth. Bumblebee stared up into Megatron's blue eyes as the golden hand curled around his throat, and lifted, and slammed him once, hard, against the wall.

Bumblebee's hold on the medic's wrist crumbled.  Starscream lunged forward, shot out an arm, gripped Knockdown by the wing, and literally hauled him back.  Megatron set Bumblebee on the edge of the berth, which he clutched with locked elbow joints to keep from collapsing.  In the background, he could see Knockdown being pulled to his pedes and steadied by various hands.  In the foreground, he could see Megatron's face, grave and stern.

"I hope," the Decepticon leader said in his gravelly voice, "that you are through maltreating my medic."  He strode over to check on Knockdown, who waved him away impatiently.  ("I'm fine, fine.") 

"What was it," Megatron continued, turning back towards Bumblebee (he didn't let himself flinch), "that you were going to say?"

"Megatron—" Knockdown began warningly.

But Bumblebee had reached a decision and was already speaking, leaning forward towards Megatron.

"I don't remember much before the explosion," he said. "Just a big room filled with lots of equipment and bubbling vats . . ."


	15. Day in the Life Of

Knock Out was a liar, but not _always._   When he'd told Trauma that his recharge was uncomfortable, that was nothing less than the truth; Knock Out had not had much sleep.  Of course he had not mentioned that, in addition to an uncomfortable berth and an aching back, part of the problem had been a nocturnal visit to a certain exasperating Autobot.  Not just for the amount of time spent trying to convince Bumblebee to see reason, but for the hours afterwards where Knock Out glared at the ceiling, thinking of all the things he _should have_ said.

 _This is serious.  I hope he appreciates that,_ he grumbled to himself as he watched the officers talking amongst themselves. The presence of Soundwave did nothing to assuage his nerves as he examined the little group from behind the safety of a datapad.  If Bumblebee didn't play along . . .

The hissing of the Auxiliary door caught his attention and he twisted around to see Trauma aiming frantic, nonverbal signals at Knockdown. He'd always had a terrible poker face.  Knock Out's brows lowered as he watched the two medics confer.

 _If Bumblebee doesn't play along, then I'll STILL be fine_.  He sat up a little straighter, lip curling.  _I didn't survive Autobots, Terrorcons, and Starscream's coronation after-party to be scrapped HERE._

His optics slid over to Ampule and Jumpstart. They were both staring longingly after the officers as they filed into the Auxiliary, clearly wishing they were in on the action.

As the door hissed closed, Knock Out leaned towards them, flashing a winning smile.  "Go on, listen in, I won't tell on you." He could already tell he wanted to be on good terms with the twin jets.  They poked into everything they weren't supposed to.  Useful.

He pushed his worries aside—what was the point in indulging in them?—and settled down for a wait.  So tedious.  Crossing both arms over the railing, he rested his chin on them as he gazed at the door. At least his back wasn't beset by a thousand tiny spikes of pain anymore . . . His head nodded in agreement and his optics started to drift shut, but he snapped them open with a little jerk of his head.  He hadn't gone through the trouble of dodging Trauma's blasted stupor-inducing drug just to fall asleep _now._   But that didn't mean he couldn't rest his eyes for a moment . . . Just for a moment . . .

The next thing he knew, there was a hand his shoulder, gently shaking him.  He pulled back with a little whine of protest— _damn it, Breakdown, too EARLY—_ and forced his eyes open.

The silhouette of a jet filled his vision, a glowing handprint smeared across a dark faceplate that was familiar and _dead,_ and Knock Out didn't make a sound, just froze.

Trauma drew back, looking concerned.  "Ah—sorry.  Are you all right?"

"Of—of course." The words brought him to his senses and Knock Out arranged his features into a relaxed smile to replace whatever expression had been there before.  This was a different Trauma, he reminded himself.  Not even the same color.  There was no handprint; that must've been a faulty memory overlay. "You just startled me.  Is it over?"

He glanced towards the Auxiliary.  It didn't feel like much time had passed.

"Just getting started.  We," he included the white jets with a gesture, "are going to show you around."

"Show me around?" Knock Out echoed, not bothering to keep the suspicion out of his voice.

"Around the ship."  Trauma was already reaching for the stasis cuff.  Knock Out watched him fumbling with the lock, studied the tension in his shoulders and the set of his wings before leaning in towards him.

"I could help, you know.  Mediate."

For a moment Trauma actually looked tempted, but then he glanced towards the twins and shook his head.  "Come on.  I'm sure you want to stretch your legs."

Well.  Knock Out had to admit that he did. He slid off the berth and followed the others into the corridor.  It looked just as repetitive and boring as the corridors of the _Nemesis_ , although the walls and floors were a lighter hue. 

"What's the ship called again?"

Jumpstart provided the answer. "The _Heretic._ "

"Interesting name . . ."

"It is, isn't it? The historical context," Trauma said, "is that we—the Decepticons—were called heretics for refusing to accept the divinity of the so-called 'Last of the Primes'. When the Senate corrupted Orion Pax—" He stopped short.  It occurred to him that the clone might have heard a heavily biased version of the tale, having started his life among the Autobots. "But maybe you know the history?" he asked, playing for time.

The grounder shrugged. "History lessons weren't really the Autobots' thing."  He did not look particularly offended or shocked.

"All right, well.  Short version.  Our society was caste-based.  We were slaves to our own heritage and frame-types.  If you were sorted into a mining caste, for example, then that was your lot in life—mining."

"How dull."

"Um . . . yes.  Anyway, Megatron rose up from the gladiator pits of Kaon, fighting for change, and bots swarmed to follow him.  The archivist Orion Pax fought alongside him, as close as a brother to our leader."  He looked at the clone again, to see if the name sparked any recognition.  He couldn't tell.  "But the Senate offered Orion the title of Prime to separate him from Megatron and discredit the revolution.  Megatron, well, he told them where they could stuff it, but Orion naively went along with them, thinking it would bring peaceful change.  But sometimes change _can't_ be peaceful . . ."  Trauma sighed.  "So here we are. The Decepticons aboard the _Heretic_." His lips quirked in a smile. "We just can't resist throwing their insults back in their faces, I guess."

Ampule suddenly spoke.  "What caste were you, Trauma?"

Trauma's smile faded, taken aback by the bluntness of the question.  It was a little like being hit by a hammer—slammed with memories of the unfairness and futility of the old world and at the same time a longing for its stability.

The red grounder reacted before Trauma could, tsking and waving a finger.  "Manners, new-build.  Manners."  His rich voice was pleasant and almost—but not quite—jovial.

"It's all right." Trauma said.  "She's too young to know." But he did nothing to enlighten Ampule, even after her embarrassed apology.  It was, truthfully, one of the rudest things you could ask.  It would seem even the Autobots had similar taboos. 

He glanced over at the red clone, trying to formulate a way to inquire about the Autobots without being rude himself when Knock Out, reaching the end of the corridor, swiveled neatly on his heel, and banged straight into a wall.

The expression of mixed incredulity and outrage on his face was a sight to behold.  Amp and Jump took one look and collapsed into muffled laughter, and even Trauma rubbed his hand over his mouth as he fought to keep a straight face.  The little grounder had so obviously expected to find a corridor there, and seemed positively affronted that there wasn't one.

"What— How— My finish!" Knock Out looked down, then snorted and crossed his arms.  "Oh, I forgot . . . already in _shambles."_   He kept grumbling about it under his breath even so as he followed the other bots.

 _Well, there SHOULD have been a passageway there.  There SHOULD have._   Knock Out started to look around more carefully.  At the length of the corridors.  At the angles of the turns.  At the slope of the ramps.  His brows lowered when he saw the emergency hangar, two decks down from the med bay.

"Where are we? What part of the ship is this?" he asked suddenly.

"The aft.  The Towers, they call this part." Trauma said, looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion on his faceplate.  "Why?"

"Oh, just curious."  Knock Out forced his brightest smile.  _The Towers? What the frag?_

The Towers were tall, thin superstructures rearing above the top flight deck of the _Nemesis_ —and the _Heretic_ , presumably.  Of all the places on the ship, they were perhaps most uniquely unsuited to house the infirmary.  They were the most effected by sway, they were extremely vulnerable during any airborne attack, and they were the part of the ship most likely to break apart in a crash or get burned up during reentry.

And since the Towers were narrow, of course the decks were tiny.  No wonder the storage rooms and the tiny emergency hangar were crammed on top of each other—on totally different decks than the med bay!  How did injured aerials get from the hangar to the infirmary, anyway?  They just sent them stumbling up and down the ramps?  How utterly ridiculous.  This, Knock Out supposed, was what came of having Decepticons whose heads were swimming with illogical, Autobot-ish sensibilities

Now, _his_ med bay, the _Nemesis'_ med bay, was exactly where it should be, where it made _sense:_   the dead center of the port side,  behind a stretch of well-armored emergency hangars.  He felt a modest surge of pride as he thought of its superiority, and just a touch of homesickness as well.

 _But this is about more than personal pride,_ Knock Out reminded himself, his smirk fading.  _The Towers, for spark's sake . . . They're so far away from . . . from everything!_ Bad news if he had to beat a hasty retreat. But at least he still had the Phase Shifter, hidden away . . .

Trauma was saying something; he shifted his attention back to the jet.  "Hmm?  What was that?"

"I said, have you been in an elevator before?  This will take us down to the main decks of the ship."  He gestured towards a lift set in the wall.

Knock Out hesitated, trying to work out the appropriate, in-character response.  Would a clone-prisoner of the Autobots ever have ridden an elevator? 

Trauma took his hesitance for an answer before he could decide.  "We don't have to take it, you know.  There are ramps. We could walk."

"Absolutely _not,"_ Knock Out said firmly, and added for good measure, "I'm all _about_ new experiences."

"You'll be fine," Jumpstart assured him.  "Only you might find it sort of claustrophobic at first."

 _Not likely,_ thought Knock Out as he slid into a corner of the elevator and watched Trauma tap in the code to begin their descent.

Everything on a Cybertronian starship—everything in Cybertronian culture in general—was designed to handle the largest bots, out of practicality.  No one wanted a big shuttle-bot getting stuck in their doorway or a chair to buckle and collapse when a hulking tank-former took a seat.  Lofty ceilings and spreading floor space were the norm.  That wasn't to say there wasn't accommodation for smaller mechs, chairs and tables appropriate to their height (or lack thereof).  It just meant that Cybertronian rooms tended to be very . . . roomy.

Fine by Knock Out.  All that emptiness just left him more space to maneuver, more escape routes.  He sometimes wondered what it was like to be so big that just one or two missteps would leave you utterly trapped.

 _Breakdown,_ he thought, then roughly shoved the name away.  He had enough problems in the here-and-now without fixating on the past. 

Problem number one: halfway through the elevator ride, his head began to feel . . . strange.   It didn't _hurt_ exactly, but there was a sensation of slowly increasing pressure against his helm.  Maybe the Ultramin was wearing off?  Scrap, he hoped not.  He gave his head a tiny shake.  It did nothing to lessen the pressure; if anything it was slowly but steadily increasing.  He shook it again.

"Are you all right?" Trauma asked, noticing the gesture as the elevator finally ground to a halt.

"Oh yes, I'm fine."  Project strength, hide weakness. Anyway, it wasn't intolerable. Just annoying. His step was jaunty as he stepped out of the elevator and remained jaunty until he turned the corner, whereupon his jauntiness cracked into a million pieces and he nearly backed up into Trauma.  "Are, ah, are those Vehicons supposed to be here?"

"Where?" Trauma asked quickly, gesturing for the grounder to get behind him.

"What do you mean where?  THERE!" he hissed, stabbing a finger towards two orange mechs standing at the junction of two intersecting corridors.

"Oh."  Trauma relaxed.  "Them?  They aren't Vehicons.  They're Citizens."

"They're _what_ now?"

"Citizens. There are tons of them on board," Jumpstart put in.  "They do a lot of repair work, cleaning, engineering, things like that."

"I see . . ." Knock Out studied them.  "So they're the, erm, Decepticon _equivalent_  of Vehicons."

"Ah, no," Trauma said firmly. "I know they look the same, but they're completely different."

"Orange?" Knock Out lifted an eyebrow.

"Yeees, the color scheme, but what I really meant was that they're civilians, whereas the Vehicons are, well . . ."

"Disposable war drones."

"Um, yes." Trauma was taken aback by the red grounder's matter-of-fact tone. "Actually—it's horrible, but— the Autobots' Vehicons are reprogrammed Citizens.  Reprogrammed and armed."

"Reprogrammed?  You mean brainwashed?"

"Not exactly."  Trauma sighed.  "We think there's either some kind of literal programming block or else their memories are actually erased."

Knock Out's brows drew down.  "Erasing their _memories."_   He hardly sounded ready to storm the Autobot base, but there was a faint note of revulsion in his voice.

"Please don't mention it around the Citizens, though.  They're . . . upset . . . by the topic."

"Can't _imagine_ why."  Knock Out shifted his weight from one leg to the other, putting a hand on his hip.  "You've armed your 'civilian' Citizens, I see."

"Oh yes, they have blasters.  But only because they're on patrol."

"Hmm. Patrolling for what, praytell?"

This time Ampule interrupted.  "Vehicons!"

Knock Out stared at her, black eyes wide, then narrowed.  "Let me get this straight. There are Vehicons _on the ship?_ "

Trauma could have strangled Amp.  That was not something to tell someone who still had scorch marks all over his chassis from a massed Vehicon attack. "No, no, there aren't any Vehicons on the _Heretic_ ," he assured Knock Out. "It's just a security precaution.  Airachnid gets paranoid sometimes . . . Let's keep walking."

Knock Out gave a little shake of his head, but followed without comment, eyeing the two Citizens as he passed them.  They, for their part, were obviously trying not to stare at the red mech.

"Causing quite a stir, aren't I?" Knock Out said as they passed another group, causing one of the generics fixing the wall to drop his welding torch with a clatter.  The Citizens' general reaction to his appearance was to back away and whisper amongst themselves.  Trauma couldn't exactly blame them; they weren't the sturdiest bots in the world and everything bad seemed to happen to them, poor things.  He was about to explain this when Jumpstart jumped in.

"Of course you are!" he said.  "You're a clone of Doc Knock AND you hang out with Yellowjacket AND you were nearly scrapped by Vehicons AND you looked like you were dragged through the Pit backwards—"

"Jumpstart." Trauma facepalmed as Knock Out's expression darkened.

"I was going to suggest," Knock Out said drily, "that having a stasis cuff hanging off my wrist might be adding to my notoriety."  He jiggled it.

Uh oh, this again.  "I'm sorry, but not yet."

Knock Out looked grieved.  "You don't _trust_ me.  After all I've _been_ through."

"It's not that," Trauma hedged, uncomfortable.  "It's ah, a medical . . . medical precaution . . ."

"If he takes it off, will you show us your alt-mode?"

"Jump!"

"Just _asking."_

"It's not coming off.  And that's exactly why," Trauma added, inspired. "You're in no shape to transform."

"Well, I know _that."_ Knock Out's grief diminished enough for him to roll his optics.  "But it's still . . . _stifling._   And if any crazed Vehicons do come along—"

Trauma spared a glare for Amp, who looked abashed. "There are NO Vehicons."

"—then I won't be able to defend myself." He crossed his arms and turned his head, giving Trauma a profile view of his pout.

 _"We'll_ defend you, if it comes down to it."

Knock Out ran his optics over the other three and made a neutral noise, the kind a party-goer might make when a subject comes up with which he is too polite to directly disagree.

Trauma sighed.  "Look, once we get back . . . I'll ask Doc.  And if he gives the okay, the cuff comes off."

" . . . I _suppose_ that's acceptable," the red clone answered haughtily.  "Where are we going, anyway?"

"One of the most important parts of the ship," Trauma said, glad of the change of subject. "Any guesses?"

Knock Out stopped and studied the maze of corridors behind them, then cast his optics up ahead.  "The Armory?" he said, a note of confusion in his voice.

"No, no.  The Library."

" . . . the what now?"

* * *

Knock Out seemed impressed by the Library, or maybe just stunned.  His optics swept over the rows and rows of shelves with something like amazement or incredulity.  The shelving was utilitarian rather than elaborate, but the sheer number of charts, datapads, and datasticks made up for that.

"Why?" he asked at last.

"The whole purpose of the ship was to find a new planet and start over," Trauma said.  "So we brought the compiled knowledge of our species to—oops, careful." 

The red mech flinched as a  translucent force field buzzed into place when he reached for a datapad.  "Why did it—?"

"Sorry—it's because you're not authorized," Trauma explained.  "Just a precaution.  We don't want any of this falling into Autobot hands."

"How would it fall into—OW!"

"Yes, it'll give you a slight shock," Trauma observed.  "Better come away from there, that's the engineering section.  Take a look at the historical datapads instead, you'll be able to handle those."

Knock Out came over, rubbing his hand.  "So you weren't trying to fight the Autobots at all."

Trauma shook his head.  "Megatron battled them a long time—he hates running from  a fight—but Starscream finally talked sense into him.  Cybertron was in ruins.  Even if we 'won', it was uninhabitable, so what was the point? We loaded up everything we'd need to start a new Cybertronian colony . . . but we didn't expect Optimus Prime and his crew to pursue us.  I suppose that was naive of us."

"Some would say so . . ." Knock Out reached towards a sleek white shelf, let his hand hover, and then flicked a datapad off it.  This time there was no force field to interfere. "I hope 'everything you needed' included a pile of weapons and ammunition."

"Some.  We've developed more since coming to Earth and facing off against the Autobots.  Fortunately they aren't very innovative themselves."

"Autobots are _useless_ when it comes to _thinking,"_ Knock Out agreed easily, examining the table of contents on the datapad.

"Too bad they aren't useless when it comes to fighting," a gruff voice said.   Trauma turned around to find Skyquake standing by the door, watching them. "Hey, Trauma."

"Oh, hello.  Ah . . . Knock Out, this is Skyquake, our Vanguard."

To his relief, Knock Out didn't ask what a Vanguard was.  "Charmed," he said, setting down the datapad in his hands.  "I'm guessing you already know about my, mmm, unique origin."

"I guess I do," Skyquake agreed.  "You sure do look like Knockdown.  Mostly."  His eyes ran up and down, from the wheels encased in Knock Out's feet to the pair hanging neatly off his back.  "Do you remember much about, um . . . the place you came from?"

"Not very much."

"You remember Yellowjacket?"

"No."  Knock Out picked the datapad back up.  "But I know Bumblebee, somewhat."

Skyquake looked at him steadily. "Let me guess. Now you're going to tell me he's different."

"Different from . . . ?"

"Yellowjacket."

"I really couldn't say. I don't remember any 'Yellowjacket'," Knock Out reminded him with a cock of his head.

"Skyquake, this isn't the place to be questioning him," Trauma broke in.

"Who's questioning?  I'm not questioning, since apparently nobody will LET ME do any questioning.  I'm just conversing, that's all."

"Well, converse your way to a different topic!"

Skyquake stalked up to him, which unfortunately left Trauma the options of either craning his neck upward or staring at his chestplate. "You're not Knockdown, _Trauma,_ and I _outrank_ you."

Trauma's circuits sizzled.  Seriously?  Skyquake was going to _pull rank_ on him?  "Well, if you want to be that way, I'm a _medic,_ so I'm outside your chain of command!"

"Not while you're in Air Commander Starscream's armada, you aren't!  And I ORDER you to stand aside or—!"

"Or WHAT?" Trauma almost shrieked, vaguely aware of Jump and Amp staring fearfully from the sidelines.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen." Knock Out was backing away, smiling nervously and making pacifistic gestures with his hands.  "Let's all calm down, shall we?"

"Yes, let's." They all swiveled. There, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, was Knockdown.

"Of all the—!" Skyquake spun away from Trauma, throwing his hands in the air.  "It figures!  It figures that you'd be sticking your nosecone where it doesn't belong again!  You just can't let me have a moment's peace, can you?"

"You might have more peace if you didn't fly off the handle every few seconds," Knockdown said flatly.  "We're about to meet to discuss . . . matters . . ." His eyes flicked towards Knock Out for a second. ". . . and I came looking for you, since you _turned off your comm._  So please decide if you'd rather meet with the rest of the officers or if you'd prefer to remain here haranguing my staff."

The growl rose from the back of Skyquake's throat, eventually morphing into a single word. "Where?"

"The Round Table."

"Fine," Skyquake huffed, pushing past the cyan medic.  "Just . . . fine."

Knockdown watched him go, then threw a glance over his shoulder to Trauma.  "Good job."

Trauma felt a wave of gratification and a flush of heat on his faceplate. This was a rare occasion. Knockdown was stingy with his praise.  "Patients come first, right?"

"Always.  Can you take Knock Out back at the med bay?"

"Sure thing."

Knockdown turned his gaze to Knock Out. 

"Nice rescue, doctor." The red grounder gave him an easy smile and held up a datapad. "Changing the subject—can I borrow this?"

Knockdown took the datapad and checked the title.  " _1001 Sudoku Puzzles."_   He raised his eyes to Knock Out, who crossed his arms defensively.

"Whaaat?  I get _bored."_

* * *

Soundwave attended every officers meeting, because he always had and because he liked to watch his fellow Decepticons.  Not socialize with them, necessarily.  Just watch.  It was soothing.  Their presence was soothing.  Their greetings were soothing.  Even their fights were familiar, and therefore soothing.

The only downside that was Shockwave was always late.  In fact, Soundwave had not seen Shockwave at a meeting (or anywhere else) in months, if he thought about it.

But he rarely did think about it. 

His mind, which had once perceived life narrowly, like a laser beam, had unfolded and fanned out after his capture by the Autobots.  Now the world washed against him in waves of sound, light, electro-magnetic vibrations, broadband, narrowband, all twirling and blending around him.  His life had taken a dream-like quality, or maybe his dreams had taken a life-like quality.  Ideas and memories sometimes seemed more real than the corridors he walked down.  The only constants were Laserbeak, integrated into his chest, and Buzzsaw, integrated into his back.  Beautiful, faithful friends who would never leave him.

That didn't mean he disliked the other Decepticons (because he _did_ consider Buzzsaw and Laserbeak to be Decepticons, not "toys" as some of the others seemed to think). He was devoted to Megatron, who had rescued him.  He liked Starscream, who always greeted him kindly and frequently asked him to come on patrols with her.  Airachnid was the only one who talked to him like he was the same mech as before.  Trauma met with him faithfully every week and listened to him whether he spoke or not.  Trauma was never at meetings, though; Knockdown was.  Soundwave did not particularly like Knockdown and felt slightly guilty about it.  He knew Knockdown would never hurt him, but the sterile aura of the medical bay clung to the doctor too strongly for Soundwave. It had been an ordeal, attending the questioning of the black and yellow bot. 

Still, he felt in his spark that he should go.  So he had.  Decisions were much easier, in some ways, since his rescue.

He also appreciated the enhanced radio reception.

_"I read the news today, oh boy, about a lucky man who made the grade . . ."_

"Soundwave."

The midnight blue Decepticon looked up as Airachnid's voice interrupted the airwaves.  He tilted his head questioningly.

"Did you record today's inter—today's meeting with Bumblebee?"

He nodded.  He had, of course.  He recorded nearly everything, though sometimes he accidentally overwrote them later.

"Could you send the clip to Skyquake?  Let's see if we can get that frown off his faceplate."

Soundwave looked over and noted that, sometime while he was looking inward rather than outward, Skyquake had arrived. Skyquake always seemed slightly uncomfortable around him these days, but Soundwave still liked him.

He dug out the file and sent it to Skyquake, whose helm raised in surprise.  A half smile appeared on his face as he gave Soundwave a thumbs up.  Soundwave gave a spindly thumbs up in return, watching Skyquake's expression glaze over as he began watching the reel.

"Thanks, Sounders." Airachnid sat down. 

He nodded in acknowledgement, then sent her a questioning ping, along with a picture of Shockwave.  Her legs drew in tightly for a moment.

"Oh yeah, he's . . . going to be a little late," she said. Soundwave reluctantly accepted this and retreated into his mind.

 _"He blew his mind out in a car,"_ John Lennon crooned to him. " _He didn't notice that the lights had changed . . ."_

"Now that we're all here . . ." Starscream's voice interrupted the airwaves.

Soundwave came out of his trance to find Knockdown sitting down.

Megatron leaned forward.  "Thank you, Starscream. Yes.  I would like to hear everyone's opinions on our two unexpected visitors."

There was a moment or two of silence, interrupted only by the creaking of the table as Skyquake tried to rearrange his knees under it.

"We should keep them," Knockdown said bluntly.  All eyes turned to him, most showing varying degrees of surprise.

"You sound very positive, Doctor," Megatron said. "I admit I am rather hesitant to welcome them after your treatment today."

"With all due respect, Megatron, I've taken worse from every bot seated at this table at one point or another."

"Not intentionally," Skyquake grumbled, perhaps recalling the time he had awoken in a panicked haze and put an impressive dent in Knockdown's shoulder.

"Exactly.  Not intentionally.  Bots lash out when they're frightened, or in pain.  Well . . ." He leaned back deliberately, letting the last word sink in.

"The good doctor has a point. He was quite amicable after that anyway," Starscream said.  "He answered all our questions."

"More like he didn't answer any of our questions," Airachnid said.  "Just like the other one. Can't remember this, can't remember that . . ."

"You can hardly blame them for that, Airachnid," Starscream said.  "Or do you think they're lying?"

"I don't know.  It just seems too convenient.  If the Autobots _did_ send them here for espionage . . ."

"When we found them, Knock Out was just a shade away from permanent deactivation and Bumblebee's leg nearly suffered permanent damage," Knockdown said.  "I think they were really on the run."

"But even so, when one of them is the spitting image of Yellowjacket—"

Soundwave drifted away. _"I saw a film today, oh boy . . . The English army had just won the war. A crowd of people turned away, but I just had to look, having read the—"_

"—Soundwave?"

Megatron was looking at him.  Soundwave quickly rewound his personal recording system to figure out what he'd been asked.  _"What do you think of them, Soundwave?"_   What did he think about what?  He went back a little further.  Ah.  About the two strangers.

Soundwave interlaced his thin fingers as he thought about them, the little red mech and the little yellow mech.  He thought about finding them, injured and alone among the rocks, about the way the yellow one's eyes had flickered blue for just a second when he leaned over him and the way the red one had been hunched over himself in the canyon.  He thought about the red one, today, pretending he wasn't looking even though his red optics peeked over his datapad from time to time.  He thought about the yellow one with the injured throat, twisting his wrists against his bonds, trying to sound calm when he answered Starscream and Airachnid.  He thought about the flash of hope in the yellow one's eyes when Soundwave freed him.

"Scared," Soundwave said.

This brought a thoughtful silence.

"Well, of course they'd be scared . . ." Starscream murmured, but offered nothing more.

"Specifically, they're both scared sparkless of you, Megatron," Airachnid said.

"Especially after you nearly punched one of them through the wall," Knockdown said in a dry tone.

"Ah, Doctor. You're not going to let that go in a hurry, are you?" Megatron smiled. "But when one of my crew is in danger—"

"I could have talked him down," Knockdown muttered.

"And . . ." Megatron's eyes went to the green and white jet, who had so far remained silent. "Skyquake? Your opinion?"

A subtle tension suffused the atmosphere as the others waited for his reply.

"I didn't attend the . . . meeting. I think everyone knows why." His eyes settled on Knockdown, who stared back unrepentantly.  "But I bumped into the red grounder today and I watched the video of . . . Bumblebee."  He was silent a minute.  "I came here ready to tell you to toss 'em off the ship. But after seeing one and watching the other . . . I'm convinced that they're unique individuals.  Even if they're clones.  I fought Yellowjacket back when he was around.  A lot.  Bumblebee isn't the same mech.  I'm not just talking the voice box I'm talking about everything.  His movements.  His expressions.  His reactions.  Maybe he's still a spy or a walking time bomb or something.  I don't know about that.  All I know is he's not Yellowjacket.  And . . . that's all I have to say."  He crossed his arms.

"Thank you, Skyquake," Megatron said gravely.  Airachnid and Starscream, meanwhile, looked thoughtful.

"Well." Knockdown looked around the table.  "I will repeat, I think we should keep them here.  Offer them our protection, train them up—"

"Aha." Airachnid lifted a finger.

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "Yes?" he said.

"I _thought_ you were a little overeager, my dear doctor." The spider-femme crossed her arms.  "Train them up as _what_ exactly?"

Knockdown looked at her over his steepled fingers for half a minute before responding.  "We can always use more medics."


	16. Allies, Enemies, Other

Still waters run deep.

\- Proverb

* * *

Knockdown's remark did not so much stir up a debate as set off a powder keg.  Airachnid threw any remaining reservations about the strangers to the wind and demanded to know why Knockdown deserved to add not one, but _two_ new bots under his command, in a time when new recruits were an exceedingly rare resource indeed.

"You already have _three_ medics!  Meanwhile I'm left with an ever shrinking handful of half-trained Citizens," she snarled.

"A 'handful', Airachnid?  I know you have at least fifty.  I know it _well,_ since I'm constantly patching them up."

"Fifty to patrol a starship, plus the whole slagging planet!"

Knockdown half-closed his optics. "You'll have even less if they don't survive surgery. The medical bay is understaffed, as anyone could tell you."  He cast a glance towards Starscream, but the black Seeker was looking on with a neutral expression, her fingers laced together.

Airachnid crossed her arms. "If the ship is overrun, you won't _have_ your precious med bay anymore."

"An unlikely scenario at the moment.  Whereas mechs coming back from patrol with missing limbs is a frequent and unpleasant reality."  Knockdown looked to Starscream again.  "You remember that incident last month, Air Commander . . . ?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes. The energon deposit in the southern hemisphere. We had a run-in with Arcee and, who was it now, Smokescreen.  Most unfortunate."  Starscream tapped her thumbs together.  "All the same, Doctor, we don't want to be too hasty in allocating our resources."

Knockdown didn't move, just stared at her steadily.  His optics might have widened a fraction.

Airachnid looked utterly floored, then chuckled richly.  "Oh _dear,_ Knockdown.  It would seem your ally has switched sides."  Beside her Skyquake let out a faint, wondering grumble beneath his breath.

 _"Really_ , Airachnid," Starscream said with a prim twist of her mouth.  "There are no 'sides' here;  I am simply being logical.  We do already have four medics, after all—"

Knockdown's voice was calm but flat, his wings cresting even higher than usual.  "Yes, four medics. Myself, two rookies we chipped out of the ice, and a psychologist whose time is increasingly monopolized by a side project." His optics flicked pointedly towards Soundwave before meeting Starscream's again.  The tips of his claws rested lightly on the table as he leaned forward.  "I _need_ these bots."

"Don't you think that having another _you_ in the medical bay will be rather disconcerting, Doctor?" Starscream inquired.

"I _highly_ doubt anyone will confuse me with Knock Out."

Skyquake gave a snicker.  "Gotta agree with that one.  Look, there's two bots . . . Why don't you and Airachnid each take one?"

Megatron shifted at the head of the table; it was like watching a mountain stir. 

"Or perhaps," he said, gravely, "we should ask Bumblebee and Knock Out what _they_ would prefer."  He looked around the table.  "All the energon we have spilled, all the comrades we have lost—the death of our very planet—it was for this choice.  For there to _be_ a choice."

Various pairs of blue optics dropped to the table or the floor.

"Well, of course I was going to say we should ask them," Airachnid muttered. 

Knockdown looked down wordlessly, frowning at his fingertips, still spread on the tabletop. 

Skyquake, despite his minimal role in the debate, just looked embarrassed.

And Starscream simply nodded, completely unperturbed.  "Of course we should.  I'll arrange interviews with each of them, Lord Megatron."

"I wish," Megatron said with a growl, "that you wouldn't call me that."

Starscream ignored this remark.  Someone had to remind him who he was, and the task inevitably fell to her.  "I take it we _are_ in agreement that Bumblebee and Knock Out should stay?  A show of hands for, please?" 

The motion carried (after a moment of hesitation on Airachnid's part and after nudging Soundwave back to reality to get his yea or nay) unanimously.  The meeting broke up without fanfare.

* * *

The two of them paused in the corridor outside the meeting room.

"Doctor."

"Air Commander." 

"Walk with me."

"As you wish."

The corridor they turned down was one of the rare promenades featuring windows, although the dark blue world wavering outside could barely be discerned; with a dark background outside and the lights on inside, the plexiglass simply reflected the interior of the ship.  The chain of windows showed the bots' progression in sequence: the rangy black-and—gold Seeker with her wings lifting and falling in time to the precise clicks of her heels while the cyan Seeker, shorter and more compact, trotted along taking half again as many steps in order to keep up with her strides.

Starscream stopped on the observation deck.  Despite being surrounded by a dome of windows, the outside world was no more visible here than in the corridor.  She made a show of surveying the scenery anyway, as though the window displayed more than her own likeness, half hollowed by the darkness pressing in against the glass.

She angled a look down at the medic.  "You're upset."

Knockdown, also feigning an interest in the view, crossed his arms.  That the gesture lacked vehemence did not make it any less significant.

"You're _very_ upset."

"Should I not be?"

"Indeed not; you should be proud.  You saved two lives and gained two new recruits."

"Two recruits whom you clearly intend to hand over to Airachnid."

"Nonsense. It will be their own choice, just as Lord Megatron says."

Knockdown didn't snort, but he did give a prolonged sniff.  "And who will be offering the 'choice' and laying out the options to them?  You, no doubt.  And you, Commander Starscream, could talk a grounder into driving straight off a cliff."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It was not intended as one."

"As Second-in-Command I must act for the greater good, Knockdown."

"Yes, I'm sure you have your reasons.  You always do."

"I'm not sure, _Doctor,_ that I like your tone."

"My tone has been nothing but reasonable." 

And of course that was true, Primus damn the mech. "Your words, then."

"Then order me to stop speaking, Air Commander."

Starscream massaged her brow with her spidery fingers as she vented a long sigh. "I do wish you'd just snarl and shout like the rest of them." She clasped her hands behind her back, pacing.  Her reflection paced with her.

Knockdown lifted his chin, arms crossed and wings rampant as his eyes followed her. "'You scratch my back, I scratch yours.'  That's what you said when you wanted the medical team, _my_ medical team, to become a wing of your Armada. You failed to mention that your scratches leave furrows."

Starscream wheeled towards him.  "Don't pretend that you haven't benefited, Knockdown.  Do you _miss_ having five teams comming you at once, all certain that _they_ are the most in need of your help, all babbling panicked nonsense in your audial?  Or flying over the battlefield yourself, searching for the injured while mechs bleed out below you?  It was so _utterly inefficient._   You are our most skilled and experienced medic;  you should be tending the wounded, not wasting your time with command decisions."

"I am _still_ the Chief Medical Officer, Starscream, and I _do_ make command decisions."

Starscream's wings rose and dipped in acknowledgement.  "Command decisions unrelated to medical matters, I should have said," she corrected herself. "Well?  Do you miss it?  If so, I will gladly release you from the Armada."

"The Armada is not the problem.  Being at your beck and call is not the problem.  You direct us reasonably well on the battlefield."  His fingers tightened on his arms.  "What happened in the conference room today, that is the problem."

"Now Knockdown." Starscream smiled appealingly, utilizing her please-be-reasonable voice.  "Do you really want two greenhorn grounders stumbling around your medical bay?  And Airachnid has need of them—"

 _"I_ have need of them!"  His vocalizer lowered and hissed with static.  "And if you had stayed neutral, stayed out of the discussion, that would've been one thing.  When have I ever begged for favors, Starscream?  But to take her side—"

"Enough." 

"'You scratch my back, I scratch yours.'  _I_ wasn't the one who said it, _Commander."_

"I said _enough."_   This time her voice was sharp enough to silence him.  He turned on his heel—a structure not quite so impressive as one of Starscream's—and stalked over to stare out the window. Starscream let him simmer a good while before speaking.  "If your service in the Armada chafes so much—"

"The Armada, the Armada."  Knockdown rolled his eyes.  "I want—need—more medics. This has nothing to do with the Armada."

"My dear doctor." Starscream's expression was somewhere between despairing and amused.  "Such tunnel vision. Do you pay attention to anything besides your medical bay and your staff, I wonder?"

"Yes. My patients."

"Just as you say."  She studied the smaller flier.   She could normally read Seekers through their wings, but Knockdown habitually kept his pulled stiff and high above his shoulders, as immobile as a grounder's grill and as cryptic as his white, enamel face.  But even so, she thought she detected a tension in his frame that was not wholly due to his bout of temper.

Starscream spoke slowly and carefully. "You said, a moment ago, that you wanted more staff.  And then that you _needed_ more.  Tell me truly, Doctor:  which is it really?"

Knockdown exhaled, shuttering his optics.  His face was as flawlessly smooth as ever, but the way his eyebrows pushed towards each other made him look tired.  "Need.  We're in a bad way, Starscream."

"Trauma and the twins—"

"Trauma is competent and the twins are well-intentioned, but—"

"'Well-intentioned,' dear me.  As bad as all that?"

The corner of Knockdown's mouth twitched just slightly.  "They'll be good someday. But we can't wait for 'someday'."  Slight as it was, the smile faded.  "That device Arcee had last time—"

"The sonic blaster."

"Yes.  It was . . . devastating.  Within thirty seconds I had ten injured troopers to tend, seven severely wounded.  Three died.  That's not counting the five others who were immediately killed by the device.  Killed by _one Autobot."_

Starscream nodded slowly.  "I see where your difficulty lies, Doctor.  You feel if you had more staff—"

"With one more pair of hands," he said, "I could have saved those three troopers."  He reached out, hand resting on the dark glass in front of him, palm to palm with his reflection.  He looked up at Starscream, the calm of his voice almost unbearable.  "Just one more pair."

"I take it that the bot you really want is, in fact, Knock Out."

After a moment, Knockdown turned towards her and nodded.

"You know, Doctor, just because he shares the same CNA as you doesn't mean he'll make a good medic.  You yourself said that medical skills are learned, not inherited."

"I know what I said.  I also know talent when I see it.  Whether it's due to instinct, instruction, or programming, I really don't care."

"Of course you don't," murmured Starscream. "But don't forget he's a new-build.  We've only been here about three or four Earth years, and I doubt if he is even half that old.  Is it really _ethical_ to expose someone so young to a parade of war wounds?"

That made Knockdown pause, his mouth scrunched slightly in thought.

Starscream pressed on. "Why not take on one of the Citizens as an apprentice instead?  Someone from the Northern Sky Patrol, for example. They're overstaffed right now."

Knockdown shook his head.  "We'd have to take a medic off of active duty to train them."

"But Knock Out—"

"—clearly knows the rudiments of first aid already.  And more."  The staunch job on his arm had been frankly astounding.  Professional, Knockdown would've said, if it hadn't been for the sheer brutality of the torn cables and gutted casing. "It would be criminal to waste that kind of talent, Air Commander.  And Trauma will watch his mental health."

"Well . . ." Starscream crossed her arms, her wings flexing slightly.  "But a _grounder."_

Knockdown turned away, to the window, his expression smoothing to something blank and remote.

Starscream felt annoyed with herself.  That had been clumsy, and now he was taking it the wrong way, and no wonder.  "Not that I'm implying they can't do the work, of course, I'm just concerned about how he'll keep up with you on the battlefield—"

"It will be a long time before I let him into the field.  He'll be assisting around the med bay at first," Knockdown's voice was cool, distant. "Like Brakeline used to."

Oh scrap.  She made her voice upbeat. "And I'm sure he will . . . be just as efficient."

"Moreso, I hope.  Brakeline dropped things quite a bit.  Large hands."  Knockdown's mouth twisted sideways, somewhere between a smile and a grimace, and Starscream could see the tips of his nails digging into the cyan blue armor of his arms.  "Anything else?"

"Ah, yes."  She spoke briskly, eager to switch to another topic. "How soon will Knock Out be up to a little chat?  I'd like to get this sorted out as soon as possible."

"Any time." Knockdown turned away from the window, possibly relaxing slightly, although it was hard to tell.  "He's mending well and frankly he's getting bored."

"And Bumblebee?"  Let him take that question as he might, about Bumblebee's health or his potential as a medic.  Starscream felt greatly disinclined to put _both_ grounders on the medical team, one was bound to be trouble enough, but after her gaffe it might be necessary to keep the peace . . .

The cyan medic considered.  "He seems to be more of the . . . active type.  He'd probably be happier under Airachnid's command, or Skyquake's . . ."

"Hmm, Skyquake.  That's a possibility.  Come, Doctor."  Her heels clicked towards the door.  "We'll discuss this further on the way to the lab."

"As you wish."

* * *

Knock Out had been surprised and gratified to find both halves of his electro-staff tucked away in a corner of the lab.  He didn't retrieve them, just noted their presence for future use.

He had been less gratified to see one of the "Citizens" in the lab, standing in front of the door to the Auxiliary.  He had listened closely to Knockdown and Trauma on the way back; it sounded like the events of Bumblebee's interrogation had ranged from "violent" to "cautiously sociable."

He had not been gratified at _all_ when Trauma still refused to remove his stasis cuff.  ("I'll ask Doc after he's out of the officers' meeting, I promise.")

 _Grin and bear it, Knock Out.  Grin and bear it. At least he didn't chain you up like a turbohound this time._  The pressure in his processor had cleared up too.  You had to be thankful for small favors, because sometimes those were the only ones you got.

He leaned back against the row of counters, watching Trauma chat with the Vehicon before dismissing it. (No one would convince Knock Out it was anything but a Vehicon; he _knew_ those frames, had patched them and welded them and dissected them a hundred times and more.) Finally he turned to _1001 Sudoku Puzzles._

"This is what desperation looks like," he muttered to himself as he accessed a game and tapped against the screen.  The numbers changed accordingly.  Five . . . seven . . . one—no, a two . . .

"Would you like to talk with Bumblebee?  He's awake now."

Knock Out looked and saw Trauma ( _familiar, unpleasant jolt)_ smiling at him.  Guilt was clearly layered just under the smile; apparently this was Trauma's attempt to make up for the stasis cuff.

"Of course I would!  Of _course!"_ _Bedside chats with an Autobot.  What a treat._  

He didn't even look at Trauma as he tapped in the code for the door. (Knock Out had already discovered, to his amusement, that it was the same numerical code _he_ used on the _Nemesis,_ only backwards.)  Instead he focused squarely on the blank, grey door in front of him, fighting the urge fidget.  From what he'd gathered, Bumblebee had indeed used the "clone" cover story.  He could only hope that the Autobot wouldn't blurt out something hopelessly out-of-character and Autobot-like the moment he walked in the room.  Autobot-ish.  Autobot-y?  Well, whatever.

Bumblebee looked up as the door slid open.  Like Knock Out, he was no longer tied down or chained up, aside from a loose-hanging stasis cuff off one wrist.  Trauma entered first, picking a handheld scanner off the little table and moving around the berth.

"Hello, Bumblebee," he said in a kindly tone. "I've brought someone to see you."

"What do you—"

"Bumblebee!" Knock Out strode in and gripped the side rail.  "Glad to see they've patched you up!"

"Knock Out."  Bumblebee got a grip on the wariness in his voice and tried again.  "Knock Out!  So good to see you!  Yes, the Decepticons have really helped me out!" He raised his hand and, after a wavering a little, gingerly patted Knock Out's servo.

"Good. Good. Gooood."  Knock Out snatched his hand away and settled himself in one of the chairs against the wall.  "And . . . how are you feeling, my f—ffffffriend?"

"I'm feeling fine.  How about you?"

"Fine."

"Good."

"Right."

And that seemed to cover everything they could possibly say while in audial range of Trauma, who was now noting the results of the scan on a chart.

Knock Out aimed a haughty stare at the lavender jet.  He didn't say anything, but 'Do you MIND?' was written all over his face.

Trauma looked taken aback.  "I'll just, uh, step out for a minute . . . yes."  He backed out, but left the door open.

Knock Out frowned.  After a moment he dragged the chair closer to the berth, so close that his knees were nearly hitting the side of it.  "So?" he asked, his voice casual and low.

"So?  So what?"

"Sooo, how'd the Q&A go?"

"I used your stupid story.  And they bought it. My faith in the intelligence of the Cybertronian race is shattered forever."

"Shut up." He kept a smile on his face as his said it, posture casual, in case Trauma was looking.  The doorway was behind him;  he _could_ have been looking.  "Walls have ears."

"What's on the datapad?"

"Sudoku."  He handed it over.

"Boxes.  And numbers."

Knock Out started to explain the rules.

"Wait.  This is supposed to be a game?"

"Yes, it is."  Knock Out looked annoyed.

"Ugh." The black and yellow bot pushed the datapad back to Knock Out.  "So. Now what?"

"Do they like you?"

"The Decepticons?  Yes. I think so.  We had a few tense moments, but . . . I think so."

"Good."  Knock Out tilted his chair back, brought his feet up, and braced his pedes against the side of the berth.  The chair's runners scraped across the floor as he pushed away from the bed.  He leaned his elbow on the little table by the wall as he stifled a yawn.  "Now," he said, resting his chin on his hand, "we wait."

He was asleep within minutes.  Bumblebee stared at him, then at the ceiling, the floor, and his own servos before giving in and reaching for the datapad.  Time for some Sudoku.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sudoku: that thing you do when there's nothing else to do.


	17. Professional Courtesies

Crooked was the path and brazen was the walk,  
A cocky swagger, up the ladder,  
And could he ever talk!

\- Mighty Mighty Bosstones, "The Rascal King"

* * *

Starscream always thought Knockdown's office hit just the right note. Minimal but tasteful decor. The usual shelves full of datapads, mostly medical tracts. A few sculptures—nothing gaudy. A comfortable chair behind his desk and chairs which were almost-but-not-quite comfortable for guests.

The only jarring note was an Earth plant—a cactus—roosting in the corner under some kind of specialized lamp. Knock Out, seated in one of the not-quite-comfortable chairs in front of Knockdown's desk, kept glancing over at it with curious optics, but once Starscream and Knockdown started talking, he focused wholly on the two of them.

Starscream had barely started _hinting_ at the subject at hand before red grounder shrugged.

"Naturally, being cloned from, er, 'Doc Knock'—can I call you that?—I assumed I'd be working in the medical bay."

Well, that made things easier. Knockdown leaned forward in his chair. "You understand it's not just that? I think you may have been created with some kind of natural ability in this area, or—were you trained at a medic at some point?"

"Don't remember," Knock Out said with a vague look. "Sorry."

"What Knockdown means," Starscream cut in, "is that we think you'll _enjoy_ this work—if you choose to pursue it, which is of course _entirely_ up to you. It won't be easy, but you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you're a valuable asset to this ship and the Decepticon cause—"

Knock Out laughed, a deep, rich sound, and leaned back in his chair. For a moment Starscream thought he was actually going to plant his feet on the desk, but he just crossed his legs.

"Relax, _Herr—_ pardon me, _Dame Kommandantin._ I understand. You saved my life, you'll be providing room and board," he cocked his head as though half expecting a contradiction and looked pleased when none came, "and naturally you want a return on your investment."

"Well, I don't know if I'd describe it in such . . . mercenary terms," Starscream said, taken aback.

"I can assure you, we saved you because it was the ethical thing to do," Knockdown said, frowning at this besmirching of his professional integrity, "not because we considered you an 'investment'."

"Still, the fact that I'm able to provide something in return makes for good feelings all around, doesn't it?" Knock Out asked, lofting an optic ridge. He leaned both chair and body forward, resting his forearms on the desk as he gave a knowing smirk. "And I am perfectly willing to be a team player. You scratch my back, I scratch yours."

Starscream stared at him. Knockdown's fixed expression became even more fixed.

After a few seconds Knock Out uncrossed his arms and pushed his chair back a little. He was still smiling, but the smile was beginning to tense up. "Something wrong?"

"Ah. No, my dear, not at all." Starscream exchanged a glance with Knockdown. Uncanny.

"I think, for now, we'll assume your talents are somehow inborn or pre-programmed or . . ." Knockdown gave him one last searching look before shrugging. "It doesn't matter. Knock Out, you do understand . . . we're at war. You will see injuries. You will see spilled energon. And sooner or later, you will see fatalities. You understand?"

Knock Out made a noise in his throat, like he was swallowing a cough or a chuckle. "Nothing I can't handle."

"Yes, well. I hope you feel the same way six months in. If anything gets to be too much, let me know immediately. Meanwhile, you'll be having bi-weekly sessions with Trauma—"

"Trauma." The response was instantaneous and there was a razor-thin sharpness embedded in his genteel tone. " . . . what kind of sessions?"

"Psychotherapy." Knockdown said, watching him. This was the part where some bots became tiresome, angrily declaring that they weren't crazy, that therapy was for weaklings, and so on. But Knock Out just sat there, feet tucked under his chair, drumming his fingers on his arm, the one with the missing door. His lowered helm obscured an already unreadable expression.

Starscream cleared her throat. "You understand, don't you, that this is simply a means of helping you . . . keep an even keel. Considering your past . . ."

Knock Out's mouth tightened for just an instant before relaxing into a smile. He raised his helm. "Yes, I suppose it is a good idea. Yes, of course it is. Forgive my reluctance. Living with the Autobots has made me overly wary of . . . certain types of situations."

"You have nothing to worry about here," said Starscream. _Poor little thing._

"I can assure you that everything will be completely above board and painless. And completely private," Knockdown said with brisk, professional firmness. "Trauma is a good bot."

"Oh yes, he seems very . . ." Knock Out's fingers tapped on his arm again. "Very pleasant. Well, I think you've addressed all my concerns."

"Then I'm pleased to welcome you to the medical team."

Knock Out leaned back. "Pleased to be here. When do I start?"

"As soon as I finish reconstructing the circuitry in your arm—that's just a patch job—and replace that door of yours."

"Mmm." Knock Out rubbed his injured arm. "I certainly won't complain about being made, shall we say, a little more complete."

"Well, that sounds excellent. Your official job title will be General Assistant," Starscream said briskly.

"Oh, yes? Fine," said Knock Out.

Knockdown, on the other hand, turned towards the Air Commander, not actually narrowing his eyes, but coming close. The lowly Gen. Asst. categorization meant Knock Out would not be attached solely to the medical team, but could be "borrowed" by other officers as necessary. Later, Starscream intended to reassure the CMO that the job title was only for the sake of paperwork and that in _practice_ Knock Out would be in the medical chain of command. Which was more or less true. At any rate, the CMO could hardly object in front of Knock Out.

 _A graceful solution to a tricky little problem,_ Starscream congratulated herself. _What a pity he's a grounder, though._ "So, that said . . . Do you have any questions, Knock Out?"

"Yes, actually. Where will my quarters be?"

That drew Knockdown's attention back to his newest staff member. "Well, we're a little short on space in this section, but I'm sure we can clear out one of the storage rooms and convert it into—"

Knock Out held up a hand. "With all due respect, Doctor, I'd rather be midship. Around the Library, if possible. I'm _always_ looking for opportunities to further my education." His head, tilted upward, gave a clear view of his round, red optics.

"I have no objection." Knockdown looked at Starscream.

"Nor I." There were plenty of empty rooms midship—and, for that matter, in the bow and the aft as well. One of the dubious benefits of the increasingly deadly Autobot raids.

"Excellent. Port side for preference, but I'm not picky," Knock Out said. "Any . . . particular _reason_ the med bay is in this rather, ah, confined part of the ship? Just out of curiosity."

"It's not the most convenient placement," Knockdown said, "but it's necessary for the emergency hangars. For injured aerials."

"Oh, I see." But Knock Out still wore a tiny frown.

"Here's a datapad outlining some basic medical procedures, first aid, and so on." Knockdown pushed it towards him. "Something to read up on when you get a chance."

Knock Out accepted it with a nod, standing up.

"Tell your friend Bumblebee to head up here, will you, dear?"

"Sure thing. Au revoir, _Dame Kommandantin, Herr Doktor!"_ He gave a showy salute and was gone.

As soon as the door shut, Knockdown immediately turned to Starscream, his eyebrows raised. "A General _Assistant?"_

"It wouldn't be the first time you had one." As much as she was trying not to bring Brakeline into this, Knockdown still gave a slight flinch. Starscream hurried on, soothingly. "It's only for the paperwork, my dear doctor. He will be completely under your jurisdiction."

"Hrrrm." He crossed his arms, tapping his fingers against the blue casing as he frowned at the table. His optics lifted to look at the Second-in-Command. "You promise?"

"One hundred percent yours. You decide when he works, where he works, days off, bonuses, et cetera, et cetera . . . No different from if he were a Junior Medic or whatnot."

"I'd like that in writing."

"Knockdown!"

"What?"

"I am . . . offended! Shocked! I mean every word I say!"

"Yes. So I'm sure you won't mind writing them down." He swept a blank datapad and stylus onto the desk.

Starscream huffed as she picked them up. "Honestly." She scribbled a moment and pushed the datapad towards him. His optics scanned over the text. He pushed it back.

"Signed and dated, please."

"Knockdown, I would like to make this clear . . . that I am only humoring you . . . because we're old friends," Starscream grumbled as she looped her signature onto the bottom of the document.

"Same." Knockdown glanced at the datapad again and this time, satisfied, filed it in a drawer. "Anyone else, I'd tell them to change the classification or get scorched."

Starscream put her hands on her hips. "If your medics could hear you now . . ."

He tilted his helm, and for an instant the origin of Knock Out's smile was clearly written on his face. "They'd never believe you."

Starscream was shaking her head, rueful and amused, when there was a knock at the door.

Knockdown's expression returned to its usual state of neutral calm. "Come in, Bumblebee."

Someone came in, but not Bumblebee. It was Jumpstart.

"Um, Trauma sent me here," he said, looking from the CMO to the Air Commander. "Bumblebee's busy talking to Megatron."

* * *

Exactly five hours, seventeen minutes, and thirty-two seconds had elapsed since Shockwave had sent Megatron the message. It was short and to the point:

"Contact reports Autobot project, start date approximately six months ago, details unknown. Involvement of Prime and Ratchet. Cloning possible. No further details. Unverified."

His contact had been either ignorant or deliberately unhelpful, but Shockwave had not included this in his report. First, because he did not know which was the case. Second, because it was irrelevant. Megatron had asked him for information on possible cloning projects, not on who knew what.

Five hours, twelve minutes, and six seconds ago, Shockwave had received a reply from Megatron.

"Thank you, Shockwave. You're help has once again proved vital. You are a vital member of the Decepticon cause and I hope you will see fit to return to us soon. With hope, Megatron."

Shockwave read this message through once and corrected the obvious grammatical error. (Megatron was intelligent, but for all that his grammar was imperfect. In the gladiator pits of Kaon, one was less apt to wonder "now is this a case of 'you're axe hit me in the face' or 'your axe hit me in the face'?" and more likely to reflect, "I am bleeding profusely because an axe just hit me in the face.") Reading it through a second time, he deemed that it did not contain any information of importance, and deleted it.

The next several hours he spent gathering energon crystals—a task some would call tedious, but which he found peaceful.

One hour, five minutes, and forty seconds ago, Shockwave had received another message.

"QUERY: YOU WEREN'T AT THE MEETING? I FOUND A VIDEO FOR YOUR FILES. QUERY: YOU WILL BE AT THE NEXT MEETING?"

He opened the video attachment and discovered it to be a primitive piece of Human animation about "Charlie the Unicorn". (For an astrosecond he thought it was as misspelling of Unicron, but no, his cross-referencing revealed a unicorn to be "a mythical animal resembling a horse with a horn projecting from its forehead.")

The video was short, strange, and illogical in the extreme. Shockwave did not see any sense in either the plot (such as it was) nor the underlying message. How could the unicorns discover a magical liopleurodon when liopleurodons had been extinct for millions of Earth years? What was so significant about being "on a bridge"? It was clearly base nonsense.

Shockwave filed the message in his "Save" folder and went on gathering energon crystals. From time to time he read the message again and watched the attachment.

* * *

Bumblebee could not honestly say he was _comfortable_ around Megatron. Yes, he seemed . . . benevolent . . . but there was still a physicality to him that Optimus Prime, even after his amazing upgrade, just didn't have. It was impossible to forget that he was a gladiator from Kaon who could (and, from what Bumblebee had experienced, WOULD) be ready for combat in the blink of an eye. Probably this would have been less unnerving to anyone who was not suffered at the hands of the not-so-benevolent version of Megatron.

But _this_ Megatron was asking him how he felt and if he was hungry, and what could Bumblebee do except answer politely and shush the part of him that kept shouting "ATTACK!" or, alternately, "FLEE!" At least he'd managed to move the conversation into the main medical bay, where he didn't feel all cramped and trapped.

"I really feel fine, almost normal now," Bumblebee said, which was true—just some aches and a leg that was still unsteady, which didn't surprise him. "They've even given me the all clear to transform."

That was the _first_ thing he'd done when Trauma took his stasis cuff off. There had hardly been room in the Auxiliary and Knock Out had drawn his feet up onto his chair and snapped at him, but he hadn't _cared,_ it was just so satisfying. Especially after Trauma warned Knock Out that he was under no circumstances to do the same. ("I know, I know, my wretched _back.")_

"I am glad to hear that your recovery has been smooth. Due in great part to our fine medics, no doubt." Megatron's gaze swept over the three medics present—Trauma, Jumpstart, and Ampule—not quite smiling, but definitely looking sternly approving. Trauma nodded his head in acknowledgement, looking pleased. Ampule rubbed her arm in embarrassed pleasure and Jumpstart stared at Megatron as though he was Primus in person.

"Yes, they've been great." Okay, Knockdown still weirded him out by being so like/unlike Knock Out, but he'd forgiven Trauma for the "voice" remark—he seemed okay—and the twins had an exuberance that made him miss Smokescreen.

"But we're missing one," Megatron observed, looking around. "One medic and one clone."

"Ah, I think Knockdown and Starscream wanted a word with the patient, Megatron." Trauma put the slightest emphasis on "patient."

 _"Both_ of them?" Megatron asked sharply, and Bumblebee was swallowing his fear all over again. "My Second-in Command failed to say she would be inviting the good _doctor_ to sit in on her little interviews. My, my, I will be interested to hear what they have to say on the subject."

Trauma looked uncomfortable. "I'll just . . . go check on them." He was almost into the corridor when he met up with Knock Out, returning. They leaned together, whispering—well, Trauma leaned _down,_ that's what it amounted to—and Trauma gestured to Jumpstart and whispered something to him in turn.

Exit Jumpstart, enter Knock Out. With a flourish, of course. As always.

"Lord Megatron." Knock Out saluted showily, his right hand pressed over his left headlight. "A pleasure to see you again!"

"And the same to you, Knock Out." Megatron looked amused. "You're looking—"

"Perfectly terrible, my liege." Knock Out looked with distaste at the scars and burns still decorating his chassis. "You can say it. I won't mind."

"Don't say it," Bumblebee advised. "He'll sulk for hours."

"Did anyone ask you?" Knock Out waved a finger admonishingly. "But really—just wait a week, my lord, and _then_ you'll see where I got my name."

"He got it because he can't take a punch."

"That is a foul _lie,"_ Knock Out crossed his arms, eyes half-shuttered, haughty. "And you're one to talk! At least I'm not named after a _bug."_

Megatron chuckled. "Everything has its origin, and none are to be ashamed of. But you, Knock Out, I'm curious—where exactly did you pick up this 'my lord' and 'my liege' business."

"Uh." Knock Out smiled, but it was a frozen sort of smile. Bumblebee suddenly noticed that, despite the jaunty attitude, Knock Out always stayed at least an arm's length from Megatron. How reassuring. "I don't know, my lo—I don't know."

"I was wondering if you got the habit from Starscream," Megatron said, raising an eyebrow. "I understand you were talking with her earlier."

"Indeed he was." In strode Starscream herself, with Knockdown at her heels. "I _did_ mention I would be interviewing our new friends, Lord Megatron."

"Indeed, Starscream. But I am slightly surprised to find our Chief Medical Officer was included. You _were_ present, Knockdown?"

"Yes," Knockdown said shortly, unflappable as ever. "We thought we'd discuss career options while we were at it."

"Oh yes?" He turned towards Knock Out. "And did any particular field catch your interest?"

"Medic," Knock Out said without hesitation.

"Why am I not surprised?" Bumblebee said.

"I find myself similarly unsurprised," said Megatron.

"Well, I do have something of a natural flair for the profession. Isn't that right, Bumblebee?"

Bumblebee wanted to say something sarcastic, but . . . Knock Out _had_ patched him up out there in the desert. "I've seen worse."

"You've _seen worse?_ What in the Pit is that supposed to mean?" Suddenly an angry red mech was stalking towards him. "I saved your leg with nothing but electrical tape and _hope,_ BUG!"

"Yeah—after using most of the bandages on yourself!"

Knock Out swirled around and pointed a finger at the blue CMO. "Doctor! In triage, all-things-being-equal, who gets medical attention first?"

Knockdown tilted his head slightly. "The medics themselves."

Knock Out swung back towards Bumblebee, one hand on his hip and the other flashing sideways in a 'you SEE?' gesture.

Starscream cleared her throat. "Were you about to say something, Lord Megatron, about Knock Out's decision?"

"No, Starscream, it appears . . . satisfactory. Although _perhaps_ his interest would not have required a tag-team with the good doctor in order to develop. Merely a thought." He glanced at Bumblebee and smiled. (Bumblebee once again attempted to find the sharp teeth nonthreatening.) "Do not feel obligated to make any hasty decisions just because your friend has. This is something you may want to mull over."

"Thank you," Bumblebee said. He had no idea what anyone even did around here, aside from the medics and the air support team (which was out for obvious reasons).

 _Not that we're going to be around here long enough to actually "do" anything anyway,_ he reminded himself.

"Well! Now that you're both here," Megatron looked from Knock Out to Bumblebee, "I would like to officially offer you both a sanctuary and a home in the Decepticon army."

"Accepted, and gratefully, my liege." Knock Out made a show of sinking down on one knee, hand pressed to his chest again, helm bowed.

Megatron looked highly amused. "Someone has taught you the gladiatorial protocols, I see. But I do not think I'll be throwing you in a ring any time soon."

Knock Out let his hand drop to his knee and looked up. "Gladiatorial, eh? Well, it makes sense, I suppose."

"What makes sense?" Starscream asked.

"Oh, everything," he said vaguely.

Megatron held out a hand. Knock Out accepted it and was pulled to his feet.

"I don't have to do that, do I?" Bumblebee made a swirly gesture with his hands, ending with him pointing at the floor.

Megatron chuckled. "No, Bumblebee. That was more about personal style, I believe. All I need is a simple yes or no."

"Oh, phew." Bumblebee pretended to wipe off his forehead, not that Cybertronians actually sweated. "In that case . . ."

Doubt suddenly surged across his circuits. Saying yes to a Decepticon. Saying yes to a _Decepticon?_ And not just any 'Con, but _Megatron?_ Suddenly the room seemed to be filled with nothing but Decepticon symbols, on the walls, on Megatron's chest, stenciled clearly on the wings of all the medics and blurrily on most of the medical equipment. He was an _Autobot,_ and . . .

. . . and he was a Scout, too. Slipping behind enemy lines, exploring the unknown, deceiving when he had to, and taking his allies where he found them.

"Scout" was just a polite term for "spy."

" . . . I am happy to accept the help and hospitality of the Decepticons."

"Excellent!" Starscream clapped her hands together. "Hmm, now we just have to do something about that—" She pointed at the metal Autobot insignia emblazoned at Bumblebee's waist. "—and those." She stabbed her finger at Knock Out twice.

"'Those'? What do you mean, 'those'?" Knock Out took a step back.

"Your optics, my dear."

"Wha—I'm not replacing my _eyes!"_

"Not the actual optics," Knockdown corrected. "You have the same style as I do. The optical light is white, but the front screen is dark blue. Well, dark blue for me, dark red for you. Basically, we'd only have to replace the screen."

"That's not the point! They're _mine!"_

"I'm not removing my Autobot symbol either," Bumblebee said, crossing his arms. "Like Knock Out said . . . it's mine."

Starscream's eye narrowed. "That does not seem to be a very . . . convincing show of loyalty to your new cause, considering your history."

Megatron said nothing. He just watched. Bumblebee could feel the weight of his eyes as he spoke.

"To you it's just the symbol of an enemy, but to me it's . . . where I started, where I came from." And where he was returning to, he hoped. "It's a part of me. I'm not going to be any more or any less of a threat to you because I'm wearing the Autobot symbol. It's not going to change who I am."

"But we can transcend our origins, can we not?" Starscream's voice was gentle now, persuasive. "And have you thought about how others will react to it? To you?"

Knock Out gave a snort of laughter. "How they'll react to us—please! I can tell you exactly what their reaction will be . . . 'Come one, come all, see the freakish clones. _Gawk_ at the nefarious Yellowjacket, who eats newsparks for breakfast! _Gape_ at the grounder abomination spliced from the venerable Knockdown's very CNA!' Do you seriously think a pair of red eyes or the ever-dour Autobot brand are what's going to catch their eye?"

"All right, you've made your point." Starscream leaned back, crossing her arms; she looked both annoyed and amused. "Although I sincerely hope you inform me if anyone actually treats you so rudely. Lord Megatron? Your opinion?"

"Let them keep their idiosyncrasies. Neither the Autobot symbol nor a pair of red eyes causes me any alarm," Megatron said easily.

 _I'll bet it helps that we're both half your size,_ thought Bumblebee. But out loud he simply said, "Thank you."

"Yes, thank you, Lord Megatron." Hand to the chest again, with practiced ease. But when Megatron turned to speak to his Second-in-Command, Knock Out leaned close to whisper to Bumblebee.

"Good job, Bug."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow wow wow, over 50,000 words! For someone who has never won NaNoWriMo, this is a big deal! Not that I wrote this in under a month, but still.
> 
> Dame Kommandant--Correct? Incorrect? Is Kommandant a masculine form of the word? (Edit: changed to Dame Kommandantin, thank you!)


	18. Welcoming Committees

Skyquake was not sure how _he_ had been roped into helping Commander Starscream pick out the quarters for the newbies, but here he was, just the same, peering into empty room after empty room.

"Well, this one's sizeable," Starscream said.  _"Too_ large, perhaps?  Neither of our new mechs is very . . . substantial."

"Bigger is better," Skyquake said.  "You don't know what size of bot they might invite over."

"Yes, I suppose that's true . . . Check the washroom, will you?"

Skyquake nodded, watching his feet as he avoided a coil of cables and a stack of empty energon cubes.  Every room they'd been in so far had had its own collection of forgotten furniture, equipment, and plain old junk scattered around. 

Skyquake reached one arm into the frame of the washrack and turned on the sprayer.  Solvent showered down, slightly rusty at first, and pooled around the grate at the bottom of the gently concave floor.  Skyquake turned off the sprayer, but the light blue puddle remained.

"Bad plumbing," he reported, returning to the main room. "The drains are clogged."

"Wonderful."

The next three rooms also had clogged drains.  Starscream suggested that they go one corridor down to try to escape the problem.  "We'll find one in working order yet, Skyquake.  And then too, we have to take proximity into consideration."

"To the medical bay, you mean?"  The news that Knock Out would be apprenticed to Doc Knock was already common knowledge. It was like that, on a ship. Skyquake had heard the news from the Citizen who ran the canteen, who had heard it from the Citizen who swept the training grounds, who heard it from a Citizen who _just knew._   "We're pretty far away from there."

"Knock Out asked to be near the Library, so here we are.  No, I meant proximity to each other.  We want their rooms close together, but not _too_ close.  We want to encourage them to socialize with the rest of the crew, not just each other."

Skyquake silently remembered his own arrival to the _Heretic_.  Everyone had been nice and all that, but the transition from his own compact, one-bot spacecraft to the cavernous flagship sure as scrap took some getting used to.  He'd spent a lot of evenings with his spark-twin, dropping by his room to hang out or to let himself be talking into going out for some sparring or playing that Human game Dreadwing liked so much, chess.  It had been nice having his brother to turn to, even if chess wasn't really his thing.

"Okay," he said, "but not _too_ far."

"No, no, of course not.  Two or three corridors should do it, I think."  They walked down the hall in silence past the broad doors with the Iatric painted on them.  The old medical bay.  Knockdown hadn't been happy about moving but, Pit, who had been happy at that point?

Starscream paused in front of a smaller door, also bearing the Iatric.

"I wonder if our new medical assistant would be offended," mused Starscream, "if I put him in Knockdown's old quarters.  I think he might find the idea entertaining."

Skyquake shrugged.

"I suppose Trauma would say it would cause a complex or somesuch," said Starscream.  "Ah well."

This time Skyquake grunted.  Yeah, that sounded like something the resident shrink would say.  "Didn't seem like the type who would care, to me.  But I only met him for a few minutes."

"But Soundwave sent you the videos of his interviews, did he not?"

"Uh, yeah."  Soundwave had, but he'd sort of fast-forwarded through anything that didn't involve Yellowjacket's clone.

As though reading his mind, Starscream said, "You'll have to talk with Bumblebee eventually, Skyquake."

Wow, _really?_  

"I tried to, remember?  And I kept getting shot down."

"Yes, yes, I know.  I wasn't trying to criticize." She patted his arm.  "I'm just saying now you'll have the opportunity.  He's a very nice little mech.  Reminds me a bit of the twins."

It took him a minute to realize she was talking about Jump and Amp.  Of course she was.  Because Skyquake wasn't a twin anymore, was he, with Dreadwing gone. 

 _They aren't even spark-splits,_ he thought bitterly.  _But we found 'em at the same time and they have the same frame so, oh, of course, they're "twins."_   Not that he begrudged them their closeness, but it just . . . stung.

"Hmm," said Starscream, standing in the doorway of another flat of empty quarters. She stepped inside, wiped a thin trail of cleanliness through the dust coating the desk, and eyed her finger critically.  A surprising number of chairs formed a maze in the middle of the room.

"Where do these things come from, I wonder?" Starscream said as she edged past them to check the washroom.  Skyquake didn't follow, but instead started stacking the chairs on the berth to free up some floor space. 

There was a sudden hiss of liquid from the washroom and an "Oh my!", and Starscream exited with one giant, backwards step, her arm dripping with solvent. 

"Ridiculous amount of pressure in the pipes here," she complained, frowning at the faintly blue-ish liquid dripping off her arm.  "Does _nothing_ go right on this ship?"

Skyquake's forest green shoulders lifted as he shrugged. "Half the plumbing's shot to slag."

"Yes, yes, I read the reports.  And live them, Primus help me. Well . . . better too much solvent than none at all, I suppose.  And at least the drain works.  Have a couple of the Citizens clear out the junk and spruce this place up, will you?"

"Sure, Commander." 

Starscream nodded, frowning absently at the dust layering the desk again.  Abruptly, she asked, "Would you be willing to take him onto your team?"

"Who?"

"Bumblebee."

Skyquake was silent.

"You know he's  a different bot, Skyquake.  You said as much."

"Yeah.  I said that."  _But that's different from having to be around someone who looks like HIM all the fragging time._

"And we can always use more help with reconnaissance."

"Well.  But.  No wings. He'd have to use a ground bridge.  All the time."

"So do you, unless you're doing short range patrols."

"Yeah . . . Is this what . . . I mean, did he _say_ he wanted t' be a scout?"

"I haven't asked him yet.  I wanted to get your perspective first."  When he fell silent again, she added, "Just think about it.  And after all, he may decide to go a different direction entirely.  Join Airachnid, perhaps."

"Yeah, maybe."

Starscream headed for the door, smiling wryly.  "Come on, Skyquake.  Time to see if we can, in fact, find a second room on the flagship with functional plumbing."

* * *

It was Bumblebee's idea to sneak out of the medical bay for a while.  It was Knock Out's idea to follow him.

It didn't take Bumblebee long to notice but, to be fair, Knock Out wasn't trying for stealth.  He caught up with the Autobot by the elevator.

"Sneaking away, Bumblebee?  Tsk _tsk._ "  The Decepticon waved a finger.  "What are you up to, hmm?"

"I needed some air," Bumblebee returned, annoyed.  The medical bay was just too . . . bustling.  And it smelled like bleach.  "Aren't you supposed to be getting your arm fixed right now?"

"Oh, it'll be an hour or two before they're ready.  Preparations and so on.  I asked Jumpstart if I could step out and he said it was fine.  That's right;  I was a good little clone and asked permission before _I_ went for a stroll."

"You asked _Jumpstart?_ Isn't he, like . . . not really in charge at all?"

"He has more seniority than me on this ship, doesn't he?"

"Well, yes . . ."

"So clearly asking him was sufficient." He tapped the down button and the elevator doors hissed open.

"Your logic never fails to amaze."

"Thank you!" 

"Don't mention it."  Bumblebee watched the numerical  display as the elevator sank ever downward.  He gave his head a sudden little shake to clear his processor.  It felt sort of _tight_ all of a sudden, like something was pressing against his cranial cavity.  He saw Knock Out's optics flick towards him as he shook it again.

"Something wrong?" the 'Con asked.  His tone was casual, but he leaned forward a little.

"No."  Being stuck in an enclosed space with a Decepticon was discomforting enough without being on the receiving end of that red-eyed stare.  He sure as scrap wasn't going to _confide_ in the creep. "Why?  Something wrong with _you?"_ he challenged.

"No.  Of course not," Knock Out said with a little smirk and a toss of his red-finned helm.  He gestured towards the elevator door with two flat-palmed hands as it opened, not quite bowing.  "After you."  Bumblebee snorted and stepped out.

Knock Out followed the Autobot at a saunter.  "Want to see the Library?"

"No,"Bumblebee said, just to be contrary.  He turned at the next intersection.  Knock Out turned too, saunter, saunter.  "So you're just going to keep following me, huh?"

"Why not?"  That maddening smirk.  "Someone has to keep you out of trouble, little Autoclone."

"What did I do to deserve this? To deserve YOU?"  Bumblebee raised his hands to towards the heavens—or the ceiling, at least—in a gesture of aggravation.

"Clearly you're being rewarded for good behavior in some past life."

Bumblebee just rolled his optics before continuing his examination of the halls, scanning the corridors ribbed with steel support beams.  He'd been an uninvited guest on the _Nemesis_ before, and this ship's hallways was designed in exactly the same honeycomb style, just a slightly different color. 

Once in a while they passed a few of those orange Decepticon Vehicons.  (And how weird was it that those two words, "Decepticon" and "Vehicon", were no longer synonymous?) Trauma had called them Citizens, but Bumblebee felt he had smashed his way through enough Vehicon troopers to recognize them when he saw them. 

Bumblebee tore his focus away from the identical Vehicons and examined the identical halls instead.  He might as well have been walking in place on a treadmill for all the change in scenery.

"Decepticon warships are boring as scrap," he complained.

Knock Out shrugged and smirked.  "There's a certain amount of repetition, certainly."

His optics didn't comb over the halls like Bumblebee's, but wandered at random . . . until he reached the intersections where a new passageway conjoined or split off.  Then his red irises flicked in tight focus, following each pathway in succession.  Sometimes his optic ridges would lower a little or he would tilt his helm a bit, shaking his head, but more often he gave a satisfied little nod or a slight smile.  This was his territory, even if it wasn't.

Maybe it should've made Bumblebee feel better, knowing that his companion knew his way around these halls, knowing they wouldn't get lost, but instead it made him feel vulnerable and raw, like that gap in his knowledge put him at the mercy of the Decepticon.   Stupid, because the scout was _trained_ to find his way around in unfamiliar territory. 

 _But usually the geography doesn't look so samey-samey,_ Bumblebee admitted to himself. 

"I changed my mind.  Where's the Library?"

"Ah, the Library.  Follow me."  The 'Con took a left and began working through the maze of hallways.  He made wrong turns twice (or as he put it "they put the hallway in the wrong place") and had to backtrack from dead ends, but he found the Library, all right.  "Ta-da!"

"This is it?" Bumblebee had been picturing something more grandiose and less . . . minimalist.  It was big, yeah, but it was really just a grey room on a grey ship filled with (mostly) grey datapads. 

"This, as you say, is it."

Well, no matter how blandly they were presented, it was a scrapping huge amount of datapads. "Do Decepticons really read this much?"

"I'll put it this way: these ones do."

"And yet all you came back with was the most tedious game in exist—"  He cut off with an electronic whoop of pain.

The jolt of his servo slapping up against an electrified force field would have been bad enough without Knock Out's accompanying, hearty laughter.

"Very funny."  Bumblebee glared at him.  "You could have warned me."

"I _could_ have, but I felt a demonstration would be more memorable," he grinned.  His expression became more serious as his voice lowered.  "Believe me, puzzle games weren't my _first_ interest." His optics flicked towards the section labeled 'Engineering' before dismissing their inaccessibility with a  philosophical shrug.  "We-ell, I'm heading back.  Mustn't miss my own surgery."

"You do that."  Bumblebee didn't need a Decepticon tour guide to find his way back.  He would be just fine on his own, just fine.  Making his way through the interchangeable hallways that had no visible signage.  Without any natural landmarks to determine his position or compass heading.  Alone . . .

On a sudden impulse, Bumblebee sent Knock Out a download-invite for a file that would set up a basic emergency signal on a private frequency.

The Decepticon paused as he received the invitation.  Bumblebee had been expecting him to respond with a sarcastic quip or a sneer, but his expression was simply cautious.  His red, ringed optics blurred slightly around the edges as he turned his attention to his internal display.  His fingers moved slightly, as though he was turning something over and over in them, and his optics, though unseeing, edged back and forth, studying some invisible object.

A hot surge of embarrassment and indignation burned in Bumblebee's chassis. The file's metadata clearly described its purpose, contents, and schematics, slaggit!  Knock Out had no right to act like he was being offered a box full of scraplets or a live grenade!  Meanwhile the file hung in the electronic share-space, waiting to be accepted, declined, or canceled;  Bumblebee was almost ready to do the latter and call the whole thing off when his internal display popped up a notification.

** FILE ACCEPTED**

A momentary look of concentration on the Decepticon's face, and then . . .

"Testing, testing, do you read me?" Knock Out said glibly, and Bumblebee simultaneously received his ping.  He pinged back, and the medic nodded to show he'd received it.

"Well, must be off."  The Decepticon swung towards the door.  Bumblebee's optics turned off and on in a rapid blink.  Knock Out must have been serious about wanting to get to surgery if he was passing over the opportunity for a prolonged gloat.  But the 'Con was indeed heading out, only stopping in the doorway long enough to look back with a mocking smirk. "Don't get lost, little Autoclone!"

_Ping._

And then he was gone.

Bumblebee repressed a sigh.  Why did it feel like he'd just made a massive mistake?  _Probably because you just gave a Decepticon access to a coded Autobot comm line,_ he thought. _Nice one, scout!_  

But no, that was being overdramatic.  It wasn't really an _Autobot_ frequency—just a randomly generated 'band—and he and the 'Con would only be able to send each other wordless data-pings.  It was hard to see how Knock Out could do any harm with those, although Bumblebee wouldn't put it past him to try.

"Ouch!  Scrap."  Bumblebee's servo took another hit of electricity, this time from a force field flickering around the section on codes and firewalls.  Some library, wouldn't even let you access the data!

After studying the entertainment section, he began to see why Knock Out had picked what he had.  The shelves had once held an enormous number of datapads—as shown by the gaps between the few remaining data storage devices—but most were long gone, and the leavings were scant.  Seeing as there was no librarian present, nor any evidence of a check-out system other than the honor system (and a bunch of force fields for more sensitive material), Bumblebee guessed that the more entertaining datapads had been spirited away by various members of the crew.

He gave up.  If he got desperate enough he would borrow _1001 Sudoku Puzzles_ from Knock Out again.  Primus forbid.

With a final glance around, he left the library.  He wanted to just walk for a while.

The corridors were just as quiet as before and if he stopped and turned his head just so, all the support beams lined up in his field of vision, leading to infinity.  Looking at the repeating pattern made of steel and rivets and space, he had an inkling of how Raf could find a certain kind of beauty in mathematics and equations.  Ah, Raf.  What was his human partner doing right now?  Was he worried?  Bumblebee hoped not.

 _Wish you were along to see this, Raf. This place is thirty-two flavors of crazy, but I know you'd love it._   

He was just wondering if he could get the Soundwave of this world to develop some pictures for him to take back when, turning a hard left, Bumblebee ran smack into the back of a sky blue bot.  It stumbled forward, nearly falling into the group of friends gathered with it.

"Oof!  Oh, Primus.  I'm really sorry, I wasn't watching where . . . I was . . . going . . . " 

Sky blue.  Vehicon frames.  Masked faceplates turning towards him.

Autobot insignia stenciled sloppily on their shoulders.

There were seven of them, seven or eight.  Bumblebee wasn't really sure.  By that point he was running, and they were firing, and as he rounded a corner and transformed, he slammed through another five or six.

* * *

Knock Out had just reached the elevator when he heard it.

_Ping._

_Ping-ping-ping._


	19. The I in Team

All in the golden afternoon,  
Full leisurely we glide;  
For both our oars, with little skill,  
By little arms are plied,  
While little hands make vain pretense  
Our wanderings to guide.

\- Lewis Carroll, "All in the Golden Afternoon"

* * *

Knock Out heaved a sigh that was both theatrically exasperated and highly satisfied.  He'd _known_ the Autobot would get lost.  The distress chimes were flat and tinny, carrying neither words nor emotions, but the sheer bombardment of them ( _ping-ping-pingpingping)_ suggested despair.

"All right, all _right_ , I'm coming _._   Should've followed me back, _scout,"_ he smirked.  Knock Out sent a single ping back in acknowledgement, then blocked the line. He didn't need that din in his audial the whole way back.

Unfortunately the pings didn't provide any information on Bumblebee's whereabouts, so Knock Out simply started at the Library, the last place he'd seen the scout.  He guessed that Bumblebee had become disoriented in a side corridor.  Not surprising, really.  Knock Out would never admit it to the Autobot, but he'd taken his share of wrong turns when he was first stationed on the _Nemesis._   Soundwave had transferred the ship's schematics to him when he boarded, but still he often found himself checking and rechecking the map stored in his processor, mentally rotating it this way and that as he tried to make his way to the training arena or the energon storage vault.

Once, just once, he and his partner had become _seriously_ lost, "what deck are we on and will anyone ever find our energon-starved husks" lost.  Comming another officer would have been a suicidal sign of weakness and, anyway, Knock Out had his pride.  So he had stalked the corridors with Breakdown at his heels, turning corners and doubling back and sometimes just pausing at an intersection to glower in all directions.  

Every time they passed a group of Vehicons, Knock Out hissed to Breakdown that he didn't care how chummy he was with them, he was _not_ going to embarrass Knock Out by begging for help from a bunch of _drones._   And every time, to his increasing annoyance, Breakdown had silently nodded and passed by the Vehicons without a word.  As time passed and his internals began aching for energon, Knock Out's demands that Breakdown not-ask (ASK!!) for help had become more needling and incessant and Breakdown's obedience had become more blatantly and purposefully passive-aggressive. The fight that ensued once they were at last safely behind the closed doors of the med bay had been spectacular in one way, and its aftermath spectacular in quite another . . .

Knock Out shook his head and pushed the memory away.  His pitying amusement at Bumblebee's plight had evaporated and now he was simply irritated. Here he was, wandering halls which were—Bumblebee was right about one thing—positively monotonous, his head _aching,_ looking for an _Autobot,_ and for what?  He should've just left him.  Pit, it would've made their cover story even better.  Getting lost on a perfectly simple route, it sounded just like something a stupid new-build clone would do.

"I suppose I might as well find him now that I'm _here,"_ the 'Con muttered.  "After all, I—"

He stopped dead as he heard a familiar yet out of place noise behind him.  He turned around and found himself looking at a ground bridge. Make that half a ground bridge;  the wall of the corridor bisected the portal.  And that was fortunate, Knock Out thought as he stood frozen, because it meant the sky blue Vehicon troopers had to squeeze through the opening one at a time instead of charging en masse.

He came to his senses.  He ran. 

Now he could hear the sounds of battle up ahead—far distant at the moment, just echoes of gunfire and blasters—and he pelted towards them, yes, _towards,_ because he _knew_ the sound of Starscream's weaponry, universe nonewithstanding, and he was going to need some help.

Fortunately the Vehicons behind him had waited for their entire squadron to squeeze through the truncated ground bridge before pursuing him, but he could already hear the rev of their engines as they steadily gained ground.

 _Four-wheels trumps two-legs,_ Knock Out thought, his pedes throwing up sparks as he skidded around a corner.

To make matters worse, the roar of Starscream's thrusters—already distant—was fading from his audials as she either hunted down or fled from her enemies.  Knock Out would have given seventy-thirty odds if it had been _his_ Starscream, but he guessed this femme version would most likely be the feline in any game of cat-and-mouse.  Whatever the case, it meant his hope of assistance was quite literally flying away.  Meanwhile the Vehicons were accelerating, almost dogging his heels.  Either they didn't have weapons in automobile mode or they just enjoyed toying with him . . .

 _I'll just have to transform and outrun them, consequences be damned._   There would be more tedious bedrest in his future, but better that than an eulogy. 

Just as he was about to drop into vehicular mode, however, a barrage of laserfire exploded across the intersection in front of him.  Knock Out's eyes widened, no time to stop.  He dove low, his chassis tossing up golden sparks as he scudded across the metal floor, causing yet more damage to his abused finish.  The Vehicons, less quick on the uptake, skidded right into the firefight and were hammered by red sizzles of friendly fire from the right and blue bolts of unfriendly fire from the left.

Knock Out risked a glance down the lefthand corridor and discovered Bumblebee.  Taking advantage of the Vehicons' five-car pile-up, the scout charged forward from the dead end where he'd been trapped. 

Barely breaking stride, the Autobot jerked the medic to his feet in passing and pulled him along, stumbling, in his wake.  For once Knock Out wasn't complaining.  He got his feet under him, and they ran.

* * *

Soundwave had put aside the drawings, pictures, and x-rays that he'd been studying, saving them in the depths of his processor.  He loved Earth felines, so sleek-sneakily graceful, but now was not the time.  Starscream had commed him.  He had a job to do.

_"Is this the real life?  Is this just fantasy?  Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality . . ."_

His mind unfurled, washing along the electromagnetic tides of the universe (silent yet singing) as he sought the tiny, familiar prickles of distorted space in accordance with her instructions.  He hummed to the Human music flowing in from a radio station in London as he catalogued.

_"Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see . . .  I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy . . ."_

Hydrus IV, 2.52 minutes ago, coordinates recorded.

Nebulous, 2.39 minutes ago, coordinates recorded.

Ghennix, 1.22 minutes ago, coordinates recorded.

_"Because I'm easy come, easy go, little high, little low . . ."_

Beside him Buzzsaw pecked gently at his wrist and Laserbeak boosted the signal of a local broadcast signal.  Unnecessary, as he could already hear Starscream clearly.

 "— all ground bridge activity and locations to me, REPEAT, report all ground bridge activity and locations to me!  Soundwave, can you HEAR me?  Please respond!  This is urgent! I need all ground bridge activity and locations—"

Another little irregularity blossomed in the thrumming electromagnetic field and he carefully took note of the location of the ground bridge.   Ceti Alpha VII, just this instant, coordinates recorded.

Starscream was repeating herself with increasing volume.  But that didn't worry him.  She often did.

_"Anywhere the wind blows doesn't really matter to me, to me."_

* * *

"Airachnid, I can't get through to Soundwave. We'll just have to manage as best we can."

"We always do, Screamy."  Airachnid's reply was soft.  Her lithe form was crouched on the upper support beams, watching a lone Vehicon make its way down the hall.

"We're corralling our lot, pushing them back towards their point of origin.  Skyquake is running ambulance duty, call him with any casualties. Rendezvous when you can."

"Will do."  Airachnid's long, sharp spider legs flexed as the Vehicon drew closer.  It was almost underneath her perch now, but some instinct seemed to warn it of danger; it turned around, peering back down the hall in concern, as though worried it was being followed.

Wrong move. Airachnid's lips curved as she swung down from the beam, her legs shooting out to kick the Autobot drone squarely in the back.  It tumbled forward, barely having enough time to right itself before Airachnid's sticky webbing bound its legs and arms.

She gave it a mocking smirk as she grabbed its immobile legs and began dragging it down the hall.  "Watch yourself;  that first step is a doozy."  She tossed the struggling drone onto the pile with five others, also encased in her webs. 

Usually she liked a little _variety_ in her fights,but today webbing was definitely her weapon of choice.  Not that she had compunctions about killing Vehicons;  they had once been Citizens, but "had" was the operative word as far as she was concerned.   But by now, four raids in, the Decepticons knew that the drones invading the ship (their units splitting up and splitting up and splitting up again as they infiltrated the corridors), had been _sent_ to die.  No ground bridges would reopen to transport them home;  none of the main Autobot rabble had come with them. 

If only to spite the Autobots, Airachnid would take them alive.

* * *

Vehicons always had scrap for weapons;  Skyquake didn't know why.  Maybe the Autobots worried they would turn against them or something.  And that was sort of comforting.  It meant that maybe the Vehicons _did_ have something of their original selves left, deep down.  That maybe they _could_ be saved someday.

Also comforting because it resulted in fewer Citizens getting killed.

Despite Skyquake's fighting skills, he often ended up running the casualties to the med bay when the ship was breached, simply because he was large enough and strong enough to run through the ship with a bunch of Citizens flopped over his shoulders and tucked under his arms.  Once upon a time the idea would have been laughable;  they simply would've had Soundwave bridge the injured in.  But these days, well . . . _Soundwave._

"First batch!" Skyquake announced, bursting into the med bay and shoveling a load of five of the orange-painted bots onto an empty berth.  Knockdown bustled over to examine them.

"Right.  Jumpstart, you take their vitals.  Amp, patch up the leg on that one.  Trauma, head wound.  Knock Out, if you want to watch, there's a chair over there, just sit quietly and—Knock Out?"  Knockdown looked around.  "Where's Knock Out?"  And, after a brief, searching pause, "Where's Bumblebee?"

* * *

Bumblebee was, at that moment, pulling Knock Out down a random hallway, and Knock Out, tired of being dragged, was slapping irritably at his hand. 

Bumblebee finally let go of the Decepticon's arm. They had, thankfully, lost their pursuers somewhere down the hall.  A hall.  They all looked as identical as the Vehicons to Bumblebee.  "Do you know the way back to the medical bay?"

"Of course.  I know this ship like the back of my servo," Knock Out said with unadulterated confidence, then qualified his statement: "When I say I can get us there, that there depends on what we run into along the way, of course."

"I've only seen Vehicons so far."

"Same.  I think—"  Knock Out stopped in apprehension as he heard the telltale sound of an opening ground bridge. About twenty Vehicons poured out, their mass pressing outward in the confined space.  Soon twenty visored faceplates were staring flatly at the two bots.

The Decepticon pursed his lips and transformed both servos into sawblades.  "As I was saying, I think we should run."

"Frag my life," Bumblebee mumbled as he sprinted down the hall.

* * *

There was no real _reason_ for Soundwave to keep the battered radio on his desk.  He could (and often did) pick up radio stations through his own sensitive receptors, with a much wider range of choices and flawless clarity.  But he kept the radio even so.  He liked it.  That was reason enough.

 _"My kitten, my kitty cat, when she's content she purrs,"_ the radio informed him through a slight static _.  "She thinks the house is hers, but you won't like her when she's angry . . . No, you won't like her when she's angry . . ."_

Soundwave bobbed his head to the music as he sketched.  Having completed his report for Starscream and set it aside for safe keeping, he felt he was free to pursue his more personal hobbies.  In this case, drawing.

_"She's cuddly, she's lovely, when she's in a happy mood.  She loves her kitten food . . . But she's got such an attitude, completely rotten attitude.  Rotten! Attitude!"_

His comm link buzzed to life, broadcasting on a specialized frequency.

"CMO Knockdown to all officers, _please_ report if you see Bumblebee or Knock Out.  We think they were in the lower decks when the Vehicons breached the ship."

"What?" several voices demanded at once over the comm line.

"Are you saying you _lost_ them?"  That was Starscream.

Bumblebee and Knock Out . . .  Oh yes, the new car-bots!  They seemed nice . . .  Soundwave nudged the volume up a little on the radio.  _"Kitten is angry, kitten is offended, fur standing out and little claws extended . . ."_

"They wandered off.  Just keep an eye out for them, please; I can't spare anyone to search for them."  (Skyquake, in the background: "I'll be on the lookout, doc-bot.")

"Well, if they were caught down here when the wave of troopers hit, they're probably—waaaait, belay that, I have a visual.  Good news, they just ran by," Airachnid reported.

"Oh, thank spark."

"Haven't you learned to wait for the bad news, Doctor?  They were being chased by a platoon of Vehicons."

" . . . wonderful."

"I can't engage, but they're on Deck 15A, Section 32."

"Airachnid, this is important, can't you just—"

"Listen, I'm fighting my way out of a corner, but if you'd like to ask the five Vehicons in front of me to stand down so I can look for your little lost electro-lambs, then be my guest!"

 _"Don't look at her, don't touch her, my kitten knows Tae Kwon Do. She can take you out, I know,"_ the radio hummed.

Megatron's gravelly voice spoke up.  "Knockdown, Starscream and I are headed for Airachnid's coordinates.  We'll be there in ten minutes."

"In ten minutes they could be dead!"  The rare vibe of emotion in Knockdown's voice made Soundwave pause.  But when his voice crackled over the comm link again, it was back to normal, calm and under control.  "Scratch that last.  Trauma has an idea and I think it might work.  Standby."

Almost simultaneously, Soundwave received a comm from Trauma.

"Hello, Soundwave.  How are you doing today?"

Trauma was always very considerate, a good listener.  Soundwave sent him a smiley face icon.

"Good, good.  Say, do you remember those two 'bots you met?  Bumblebee and Knock Out?"

Soundwave did, of course.  They'd just been talking about them. He sent an affirmative.

"We think they're in trouble.  We were wondering if you could find them for us."

Soundwave paused—partly to ponder this request and partly because he could faintly hear Knockdown in the background of the audio, hissing, "Hurry up, hurry up!"

For a few seconds the only other sound was the radio.  _"I've seen it before and it's not pretty, she's really one ferocious kitty."_

"Soundwave?  Are you still there?"

He sent an affirmative and pulled a piece of paper over.  He wanted to draw a cat.  One with mechanical ears and wire whiskers.

"We would _really_ appreciate your help.  Please.  Soundwave?  Are you listening to me?"  There was a kind of desperate edge in Trauma's voice now.  It made Soundwave uneasy.  He didn't respond. 

Into the silence, Trauma said,  "Um, the fact is there are Autobots on the ship."  Soundwave paused, then returned to his drawing. Trauma continued, "We're worried that they'll hurt Bumblebee and Knock Out.  We're worried that they want to _interrogate_ them."

The stylus snapped beneath Soundwave's fingers.

_"She's deadly.  She'll hurt you.  She'll show you endless pain."_

"Soundwave?  Are you there? We'd like you to find them and bridge them back to the med bay . . . Soundwave?"

He unfolded himself and stood, metal scraping against metal as the chair pushed back.

_"Her little whiskers are stained with the blood of those that she has slain."_

"Soundwave. Don't overreact, all right?  We just need a ground bridge.  Soundwave, listen to m—"

Trauma's voice cut off abruptly as Soundwave disabled his comm.  A steady hissing filled the emptiness, like pressurized gas escaping from a tiny wound, and the sound was his own vocalizer.

_"Believe me, she will go insane."_

"This is CMO Knockdown to all units, Knockdown to all units.  All personnel are asked to evacuate Deck 15A.  Repeat, all personnel are asked to evacuate Deck 15A to avoid potential injury."

_"She. Will. Go. Insane."_

* * *

Maybe it was the number of times he'd seen the medic howl, "My finish!", before fleeing from Team Prime, but whatever the reason, Bumblebee had always subconsciously thought of Knock Out as a mediocre fighter at best. He didn't think he was the only Autobot who thought this way; Knock Out was the Decepticon you went after if all the other 'Cons were way far away, or already down, or if the medic was just spoiling for trouble (as he sometimes was). Knock Out could be an annoyance but—except when he got hold of a relic—Bumblebee had never thought of him as much of a _threat._

Now, watching Knock Out back down the hall with energon dripping from his sawblade, using the deactivated Vehicon skewered on his drill as a shield, Bumblebee was forced to revise his opinion.  He'd heard the phrase "fighting like a cornered rat," and although Bumblebee had never actually seen such a thing, he imagined the Earth creature would fight something like Knock Out did—with quick, desperate, merciless strikes. So maybe he just needed the right motivation for combat. Like being forced into melee with an overwhelming number of opponents, or being slowly backed down a dead end hall with no avenue of escape.

"Well, this is splendid," the medic said sarcastically as he hunched behind the husk of the Vehicon, which juddered as it took the blaster shots intended for him.  The remaining drones might not have been the brainiest, but even they had figured out to keep out of close combat with the Decepticon.

Bumblebee ducked around Knock Out to fire at the Vehicons once again. Somehow he would've felt better if his shots had missed, because then it would've been easier to accept the scrapped up situation he was in;  instead his stingers hit home and a Vehicon staggered and fell . . . and the rest of the Vehicons continued to press forward in an ominous mass all the same.

And now Bumblebee's heel was hitting metal and, yep, they had officially run out of hall.  He and Knock Out exchanged glances and dove for the meager shelter provided by the support beams at the side of the corridor.

"Don't suppose there are any secret passages leading out of here or ventilation ducts or anything?" Bumblebee asked in a would-be-casual tone.

"I am not even going to dignify that with a response."

"You just did," Bumblebee pointed out.  He risked leaning out for a quick reconnoiter, then winced back as the Vehicons let loose another barrage.  "We've got to break past them.  You don't have ANY other weapons?" he asked, spreading his hands pleadingly.

The ruby red mech shook his head. "Two buzzsaws, one drill, and a pocketful of dreams, that's it.  Like I told you, I don't have—"

"—any long range weapons, right," Bumblebee finished irritably.  "Some asset YOU turned out to be."

"I'm a _fantastic_ asset," Knock Out started to cross his arms, then stopped when the dead Vehicon got in the way.  "I took down six of them, for spark's sake!"

"If by six you mean four," Bumblebee said. He paused to fire down the corridor and suddenly he had a glimmer of a plan.  Knock Out had carved a path for them the first time they'd been trapped . . . "You're pretty handy with those saws."

The Decepticon medic snorted.  "Dissecting Vehicons is nothing new to _me._   I know where to hit 'em.  Fat lot of good it does when they're out of reach."

"If we got out of here, do you know somewhere we could hide?"

"Ye-eees, but—"

"Okay.  I'll provide cover fire and you charge them."

He laughed incredulously. "Seriously?  Is this what passes for strategy in the feeble Autobot brainpan?"

"Do you have any BETTER ideas?"

Knock Out just scowled at him.

Bumblebee tugged the deactivated Vehicon off the Decepticon's drill.  "What are you doing?" Knock Out demanded.  "That drone saved our chassis.  At least his corpse did.  Pit, I might posthumously award the slagger a name." 

"Your buzzsaws will be better for this.  Now, when I give the word, you rush out—"

He started to put his hands on his hips, then stopped since his hands were currently indisposed.  "I haven't agreed to anything yet!"

"It won't be as bad as you think, Vehicons aren't hard to spook.  Watch this."  He picked up the deactivated Autobot trooper with both hands, hauled around, and sent it tumbling into the massed Vehicons.  Several of them crashed to the floor as it broadsided them.

Snickers from the Decepticon.  "Nice one, but—"

Knock Out's remark was left unfinished as Bumblebee grabbed his  red and silver arm firmly in both hands, took a few powerful steps forward for momentum, and flung the Decepticon into the crowd with all his bodily strength.

Knock Out was only slightly shorter than Bumblebee and grounders tended to be dense for their size, but the medic still caught some pretty good air as he sailed faceplate first, shrieking and flailing, into the mob of sky blue armor.  He disappeared into the middle of them with a crash and must've immediately started going for their legs posthaste, because Vehicons suddenly started collapsing and struggling back from the familiar, deadly whine of twin buzzsaws.

Bumblebee took advantage of the distraction to press forward, his stingers blazing as he charged.   A flash of red and Knock Out was up again, both buzzsaws sunk deep into a Vehicon's spark chamber, swinging around to slam its body into two encroaching drones before raising a foot to lever the deactivated husk away.  The blades spun and slashed, throwing speckles of cyan over Knock Out's arms as he pressed forward. 

Bumblebee couldn't help him clear the path ahead, the red mech was in the way, but he forced his way to Knock Out's position to guard his back.   He slammed a broad, black fist into the face of a Vehicon clawing at him, then jerked his elbow sharply backwards, causing a drone behind him to double over.  Underfoot was the worst part, injured mechs grabbing at his legs and others, unmoving, simply waiting to trip him. 

But Knock Out was stumbling forward and Bumblebee was fighting his way through the drag of the crowd, and quite suddenly they were running free.   Key word "running", since the remaining Vehicons were surging after them.

"What the frag was THAT?" Knock Out snarled as they careened around a corner so fast that not one, but both of them, misjudged their steps and bounced off the corner wall before resuming their speed.    "You could've killed me, you glitch!!"

"Turnabout is fair play," Bumblebee countered.  _"_ I'm sure I heard someone say that recently.  So do you know where you're going or was that just talk?"

Knock Out huffed in annoyance.  "Shut up and follow me."  He hoped the _Heretic_ was as close to the _Nemesis_ as he thought, because he didn't have any time for hemming and hawing now.  Fragging Vehicons, way too fast and didn't they ever get _tired??_

Well, he'd give them a run, all right.  Right, left, left, left, right, through the maze.  He thought he caught a glimpse of Airachnid at one point but he didn't have time to think about that either.

"Almost there!"  He wasn't sure if his encouragement was for himself or the scout.  The Autobot was beginning to limp.  "Aaaaalmost theeeere . . . and, yes!"  He eagerly sprinted down a narrow, ill-lit hall, a service hallway.

"This is just another dead end!  Knock Out!"

"It's NOT a dead end, idiot!"  Knock Out slapped the door at the end of the hallway.  It was unprepossessing—the same color as the walls, with wheel-style rotating door lever and dark stains around the base of the portal.  The door itself was a  relatively small, meaning it looked like it had actually been built for bots their size rather than behemoths like Megatron or Dreadwing. 

"What is this?  Where's it go?"

"Outer service hatch . . ."  Knock Out struggled with the lever.  Of all the times for it to stick!  Bumblebee added his weight to it, but it still wouldn't budge.  The Autobot stepped back, grabbing his shoulder.

"We've got to get out of here!  We've—"   He covered his head with his arms as laserfire sizzled around them.  Unfortunately there was nothing they could shelter behind in this narrow hallway.  They just shrank back against the side walls as much as they could.

"Scrap, scrap, _scrap!"_   Knock Out darted out to haul at the wheel lever again, to no avail. 

The Vehicons clustered around the entrance to the hallway, taking pot shots at the quarry which had eluded them for so long with a somewhat leisurely air. They were even taking turns. The red mech glared at the mob of silhouetted figures . . . then stared with widening optics as something smashed through the bots in the back row.

"What was that?" Bumblebee's optics were even wider as he watched the Vehicons swiveling to deal with this new threat, even as he caught a glimpse of another Vehicon being dragged from the ranks and tossed aside like a toy.

"That," Knock Out said, sagging against the wall in relief, "is Soundwave."  Without another thought he began walking towards the fight.

"Never thought I'd see that day _you'd_ voluntarily join a fight."  Bumblebee went too, because he wasn't about to let himself be outdone by a Decepticon.

"I like fighting as much as the next 'Con—as long as I'm winning."  The medic smirked.  "But in this case, yes, I'm spectating."

"So you're just going to leave him to the Vehicons, outnumbered, after he saved us."

"It's _Soundwave."_ Knock Out chuckled. "They're the ones who are outnumbered."

Mathematically inaccurate as that might have been, it was hard to argue with the meaning.  Soundwave's movements blurred together, punch, tear, reeeend, and _he_ might have been silent, but he was accompanied by the screams of sheered metal, the pathetic creak-crumple of armored plating buckling under deceptively spindly fingers.  Some of the troopers fell back to fire on him—Knock Out and Bumblebee actually backed down the hallway a little bit to make way—but the midnight blue bot twisted out of the way with impossible speed and the few bolts that did hit only seemed to enrage him.  His faceplate snapped towards the author of each landing shot with unerring accuracy, each time leaving a sky blue 'Bot quaking with fear for a very short time.

Bumblebee wanted to turn away in horror, wanted to drink in the sight, wanted to cheer.  Beside him, Knock Out, less conflicted, bounced up and down on his pedes whenever the blue and white Communications Officer landed a particularly brutal blow.   

"Nice one!" Knock Out occasionally voiced, or "Oooo, _that's_ got to hurt."

 _"_ Is this what he's like?" Bumblebee couldn't help but ask.  Slag, he'd always heard Soundwave was dangerous, but he figured it was because he was such a great spy, not because he capable of (as he was doing now), slowly crushing a bot's chestplate under his pede while simultaneously slamming a second bot against the wall, over and over again.  _"This_ is Soundwave?"

"Yes," Knock Out said immediately.  Then amended his answer: "Sort of."

He eyed the growing pile of deactivated Vehicons with spilled energon lacing between their corpses (though not much, efficiency was expected of drones), then looked up at Soundwave, who was currently holding a hapless mech pinned to the wall with one hand.  Ye-eees, the Soundwave he knew was brutally efficient, but the way this blue and white bot was ripping his claws through the Autobot insignia on the drone's shoulder, digging through it again and again and again, suggested that this was personal. And for the Soundwave that Knock Out knew, _nothing_ was personal. Then again, he was tearing through the Vehicon ranks with a grim and measured determination that certainly seemed familiar. Rend one Autobot drone down to its base components before moving on to the next, very methodical.

The remaining Vehicons were cowering away from the Communications Officer, and Knock Out had to believe that they had undergone _massive_ reprogramming with strictly enforced loyalty subroutines, because anyone with an ounce of free will would've seen sense and run the other way as fast as their little pedes would carry them.  The way Soundwave's faceless helm kept snapping around to each remaining Vehicon . . . brrr!

Snap! His helm swinging around, staring down the Vehicon who had been about to shoot him.  Snap!  That one aimed at the drone crippled on the floor.  Snap!

Bumblebee and Knock Out drew back in tandem as the gleaming visor flashed in their direction.  Faceless.  Still.  Scary as scrap.

"Um."  Bumblebee imagined how they must look to Soundwave, two shadowy figures in a dimly lit hall.  One of whom looked like the guy who had murdered Soundwave's fellow 'Con. "I don't think this is such a great time to be an Autobot clone."

"Leeet's just try that door again, shall we?"  Knock Out laughed nervously.  They started to walk down the hall.  The sound of metal shredding echoed behind them, and then they were running down the hall.

"We'll just wait outside while Soundwave finishes up his handiwork and calms down," Knock Out said, speaking a little faster than usual as he hauled on the wheel meant to turn the door.  It still wouldn't budge.  "I'm sure that—oh _scrap."_

Two of the Vehicons were pursuing them down the hall—one missing an arm—perhaps because they thought Soundwave wouldn't follow.  Even if their main objective was escape, that didn't stop them from firing at the scout and the medic.

"Keep working on that door, I'll—oh Primus.  Oh no."

Soundwave peered into the narrow space.

Soundwave was a narrow bot.

 As the two Vehicons swirled to face him, he plunged forward, grabbing the already injured drone by the head and dragged him out to the main corridor.

Bumblebee turned away from the sound of something being methodically slammed against the floor and grabbed the other side of the wheel.  The last remaining Vehicon began running towards them;  maybe he intended to attack them, maybe he too wanted to help.  He never got a chance to do either.  Soundwave stalked after him, fingers flexing.  They sunk into the drone's arm ( _like a hot knife through butter,_ Bumblebee thought numbly) and spun him back towards him with a jet-narrow arm.

"Oh frag, oh frag, oh frag," babbled Bumblebee.  The wheel beneath his hands gave a shudder and turned minutely, rust cascading off the machinery.

"Come on, come on, come on," Knock Out hissed, either to the Autobot or to the door mechanism.  He could hear Soundwave dealing with the last Vehicon.  Messily, unless he missed his guess.  Knock Out threw his weight into his task, his armor groaning as the wheel, creaking, began to turn beneath his servos.

Glancing up, he saw Soundwave standing over a strew of cables and cogs.  He gazed down at the scattered remains in front of him; his hands gleamed a sticky cyan.  His helm rose, spikes atop it scraping the ceiling, faceplate casting an eerie blue glow down the hall.  His head jutted forward slightly as he stared at them. 

For a moment he was poised in a silence and stillness so weighty that Bumblebee and Knock Out just stared back, frozen in place.

The silence didn't break, but the stillness did.  Soundwave's feet clacked against the floor as he rushed them.

"Leaving.  NOW!" Knock Out announced in a higher pitch than usual, spinning the wheel so hard that its spokes blurred. 

The door gave a little lurch, then stuck.  Bumblebee started to tug on it before realizing, no, it opened outward.  Instead he shoved his shoulder against it, bracing and heaving, and Knock Out's pedes scrambled for purchase as he did the same.  Primus, why wouldn't it open, just let it open, please please please—

All at once, it gave.  With an almighty rasp, the door shot forward.

Bumblebee and Knock Out just had time to exchange triumphant looks before a solid wall of water slammed them down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundwave was listening to "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen and "Kitten Is Angry" by Lemon Demon.
> 
> Darwin20 on FF.net is translating this fanfic into French! I am . . . I am sort of blown away by that! Anyway, if you know any French speakers, you can direct them to [Les Maisons de Verre](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9646508/1/Les-Maisons-de-Verre). I speak crappy high-school French myself (or, erm, I used to) and I find the translation fascinating, especially how idioms are treated. It's a really good translation job, IMO. Thanks, Darwin. <3


	20. Over (and Under) Troubled Water

"Oh, what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills,  
That the sun shines sweetly on?"  
"Oh, yon are the hills of heaven," he said,  
"Where you will never win."

"Oh, whaten a mountain is yon," she said,  
"So dreary with frost and snow?"  
"Oh, yon is the mountain of hell," he cried,  
"Where you and I will go!"

He struck the top-mast with his hand,  
The fore-mast with his knee,  
And he broke that gallant ship in twain  
And sank her in the sea.

\- "The Demon Lover", ballad

* * *

The water exploding through the portal could have been considered a wave, except a wave eventually subsides and this was wholly continuous.  The roaring surge hurtled the two bots backwards, slamming them against the walls and each other.  Bumblebee came to a stop after he crashed into Soundwave's legs, but Knock Out was almost at the junction of the hallway before he rolled to a halt.  Soundwave, farther away from the door, had managed to keep his footing.  Still, pressurized water hissed on the flat planes of his arms, which were raised to protect to faceplate. 

His mask dropped to regard Bumblebee, lying at his feet, and the Communication Officer didn't have to say anything to convey his disapproval.  _What were you thinking?_ every line of him said.  

Keeping his arms up, Soundwave stepped forward, forcing his way through the spray.  His narrow design proved an advantage, splitting the water into hissing streams.  The sting of it increased to outright pain, and now he had to lean forward, bracing himself with each footstep until it was simply impossible for him to progress any further.   He remained a good eight feet from the door, unable to proceed and unwilling to retreat.  Bumblebee hovered further down the hall, wanting to help but uncertain how he could. 

Knock Out did not hover;  he picked himself up and waded out into the wider corridor.  The current swirled around his legs, carrying with it all the organic debris one would expect from Earth—dirt and coarse washes of grit, long strands of long, rubbery plants that tangled themselves around his plating, and the occasional very confused fish.  Water rippled eagerly ahead of him, lapping down every hallway and growing deeper by the second, and could hear—oh _scrap._

"—must be a hull breach," Starscream's voice floated around the corner, accompanied by splashing footsteps.  "That wretched _Wheeljack,_ no doubt, or Bulkhead—"

"Indeed, Starscream," growled a deeper bass.  "But never fear, we shall find the Autobot responsible."

Bad.  Bad, bad, bad. Knock Out started to back away down a side corridor, only to slip on the layer of organic silt settling on the floor.  His flailing arms did nothing to save him from falling on his face just as Megatron and Starscream rounded the corner. 

He decided to make the best of it by pulling himself up on one knee, pressing a hand over his chest, bowing his helm, and generally trying to look like he had _chosen_ to drop into the disgusting liquid.

"My liege," he said brightly, focusing on the enormous golden feet in front of him.

"Arise, my little gladiator."  Megatron gripped his shoulders, not painfully but firmly, and pulled him upright, setting him on his feet.  "And speak.  Have you been harmed?  Where is your companion?

"And where is the water coming from?" Starscream added.

"Ah.  The water.  Yeeees . . . There was a _bit_ of an accident with one of the outer hull doors . . ."

Starscream's expression became shrewd.  "I see."  She reached out to pluck a tangle of seaweed off the red mech's shoulder.

"As for Bumblebee, he's back there with Soundwave—"

"Soundwave!" Megatron and Starscream said in chorus.

"Where?" Starscream asked sharply.

Knock Out pointed, then trailed after them as they splashed through the deepening water to investigate.  Bumblebee was just coming out of the narrow hall—he was having no better luck keeping his footing than Knock Out and was actually clutching at the wall to keep upright—and Soundwave was just a flash of dark blue hardly visible through the white rush of water still exploding through the open door.

Megatron strode forward, growling as he raised his cannon arm to break the force of the water, and drew level with the Communications Officer, then passed him.  Fingers gripping the edge of the metal frame, Megatron's cannon arm shook as he plunged it into the water.  Blindly groping fingers caught the door by its edge and he heaved backwards.  Metal creaked and strained as the pressurized water narrowed into a hissing stream.  Soundwave hurried forward to pull as well, and the roar of water receded to a gurgle, then to a drip-drip.

Starscream, who had stayed well back eyeing the broken, half-submerged remains of the Vehicons, now strode up to Soundwave, frowning at him.  "How are you feeling, my dear?  Count backwards from ten."

Soundwave obediently pinged her the decreasing number set.  She nodded, satisfied.  "Take these two to the med bay.  The new med bay."   Seeing Bumblebee draw back and Knock Out looking dubious, she added, "He's all right now.  Hurry up, it's not safe here. And when you see Knockdown, tell him you've had contact with saltwater."

"Salt?" Knock Out gasped, attempting to recoil from the water, which was difficult since he was standing in it.  His efforts involved drawing his arms tight against his chest as he drew one leg out of the liquid, pushing up on the tip of his pede with the other. "This liquid has _salt_ in it?  By Primus, it _does!_   The effects on my systems—"

"The good doctor will attend to you," Megatron said, striding back down the hall. 

"And to you, Lord Megatron," Starscream said firmly.  "And to Soundwave, for that matter."

"I'm sure the corrosion will hold off until we have finished with the remaining Vehicons, my Second.  Come, let's finish what we've started.  You," he added, looking down at Bumblebee and Knock Out, "I will speak with later."

Which was not exactly the reassurance either of them wanted.

* * *

On the bright side, Smokescreen had escaped from the boulder, dispatched any Vehicon miners who might be inclined to tattle, and made it back to Jasper. On the down side, Smokescreen had lost the Phase Shifter.

He was _so dead._   Maybe literally.  No one had noticed its absence yet (it wasn't like he'd asked permission to "borrow" it), but when they did . . . Everyone knew it was his favorite relic (and OUGHT to be given to him permanently, _he_ used it the most skillfully!);  the fact that they didn't have _proof_ that he'd taken it would not save him.  Optimus Prime had strong feelings about theft, except theft from unworthies like the Decepticons, of course.

Decepticons.  A scowl crept across his face as he remembered the two Decepticons who had stolen the precious relic.  The Decepticons' head medic, apparently refitted as a grounder, and a bot he hadn't recognized, the one with the screwed up voice.

Screwed up voice.  That . . . seemed familiar, somehow.  Hadn't someone been telling him about . . .

"Hey Arcee . . ."

"Busy."  She and Cliffjumper were ostensibly guarding the Vehicons that had been readied for the push, but these particular Vehicons had been loaded with such thorough loyalty programming that it made the exercise moot.  You could tell them to pat their helms or stand on one leg or offline themselves and they would;  it ran that deep.

In this case Arcee and Cliff had told them to stand there and wait, so the Vehicons stood and waited.  Meanwhile the two mercenaries were engaged in a game of cards.  The only thing they were guarding were their respective hands.

"Busy? Whatever," Smokescreen said impatiently.  He watched as Arcee lost a hand, and cursed.  "Optimus doesn't approve of gambling."

"Optimus doesn't approve of anything," Arcee sneered, but she lowered her hand, the cards fanned and hidden as she draped her arm over her knee.  "What?"

"Wasn't there a Decepticon who couldn't talk right?  Like, he had a fragged up vocalizer.  Know who I'm talking about?  Black and yellow guy."

Cliffjumper was the one who responded, the emerald green grounder snorting with laughter.  "What, are you stupid?  Yellowjacket.  You're talking about _Yellowjacket."_

"Yellowjacket?"  That name sounded familiar.  Smokescreen turned back to the monitor and ran a query for the name.  Sure enough, the picture in the file matched the bot he'd fought, although his color scheme had run more heavily to black when the picture was taken and his optics were . . . red?  "Hey, he's an _Autobot!"_

"No fragging kidding," Arcee said.  "Count yourself lucky he's rust, rookie.  If he heard you calling him a 'Con, you'd be wishing _you_ were offline."

"Wait, he's _dead?"_ Smokescreen blurted.

"Not one for reading, huh, Smokey?" Cliffjumper smirked.  "Or maybe you don't know how."

"You're not exactly Mr. Intellectual yourself."  Arcee sounded bored.  "Are we playing or what?"

"We're playing, we're playing."  The two of them lifted their cards and went back to ignoring Smokescreen.

Just as he was about to delve deeper into Yellowjacket's file, Ratchet emerged from his laboratory.  The medic's plating was white cut across with an electric shade of cyan, the color of fresh-spilled energon.  "Oh.  You."  Ratchet gave Smokescreen an unimpressed look.  "What was the idea, asking for a ground bridge and never coming through?"

Smokescreen frowned.  "Long story."

"Then it'll have to wait.  I'm starting the raid."  The medic strode self-importantly over to the monitor.  "Are you ready?" he asked Arcee and Cliffjumper.

"Yeah, yeah."  Arcee stood up, sweeping the cards into a neat pile.

Each Vehicon squadron was directed through a different ground bridge— _carefully_ directed, because the level of reprogramming that Ratchet had inflicted on them had reduced them to almost mindless creatures.  Their orders were simple, fortunately.  Go through the ground bridge.  Spread through the ship.  Fight the Decepticons.  Die.

The final instruction, though not vocalized, was the most important one.

 _"Now_ the fun begins," Cliffjumper said, moving up to stare at the monitor as the last ground bridge closed. The interior of the _Heretic_ was a mystery to the Autobots, but a mystery that was beginning to clear.  A rough wire mesh rotated on the screen, a lumpy sort of shape with thin corridors strung out from it.  Little blue triangles marked the inside of the mesh, not at equal intervals, but in little clusters.

As they watched, two new triangles appeared on the screen and the mesh expanded slightly to account for new data.

"That was quick," Cliffjumper remarked.

"The Decepticons aren't fools," Ratchet said briskly.  "They'll have patrols watching the areas most likely to be breeched.  Ah, but look here."   He pointed as another triangle appeared, this one initially floating by itself, away from the three-dimensional model.  The computer hummed and within seconds a little mesh corridor had extended to encompass and account for the path of the triangle.

"Better," the green Autobot admitted grudgingly.

"There's two more over there," Arcee pointed. More pathways splintered off the main as two new symbols appeared. 

"They still go down too fast if you ask me," Smokescreen said.  "We oughtta give them bazookas or something."

"That would be a great way to give the Decepticons a pile of weapons, all right.  Try again, rookie."

"Shut up, Cliff."

"Make me."

"Both of you shut up," Ratchet snapped.  "I'm _working_ here."

They all fell silent, watching as more blue triangles blipped onto the screen.  The Vehicons continued to die.

* * *

"Don't lose your head." 

The words, hissed into Bumblebee's audial as they were led to the emergency hangar ("out of the way until the med bay is less of a madhouse", Knockdown instructed) told the scout that Knock Out's thoughts were running along the same lines as his were—aware that they might be blamed for trying to sabotage the _Heretic._   "Autobot clones", a portal opened to the boundless ocean . . . well, who could blame the Decepticons for being suspicious?  Bumblebee braced himself for the inevitable, upcoming accusations.

But strangely, their escapade had the opposite effect, utterly convincing the Decepticons—even the previously skeptical Airachnid—that they truly were hapless clones.  Fleeing Soundwave's rampage was viewed as nothing short of sensible. ("I'm really _very_ sorry," Trauma had apologized, looking guilty. "He does get upset, but I didn't think he'd be so completely out of _control.")_  

The fact that there had been an large body of water behind their chosen escape route was accepted as an unfortunate coincidence, and Soundwave's recording of the events—which Starscream had gone through the effort of teasing out of him after explaining that, no, she really did want THAT FILE from THAT TIME SEQUENCE and not a random video of kittens falling asleep in their food—had clear audio of Bumblebee saying, "I don't think this is such a great time to be an Autobot clone."

Bumblebee was not sure how he felt about his ironic line being taken literally.  He . . . supposed it was a good thing, under the circumstances?

At any rate, the sheer panic he and Knock Out had shown—painfully evident in the video, to the scout's embarrassment—was as much of a factor as what he'd said.  Not to mention the still-frame he later found Ampule giggling over, of Knock Out being pushed backwards by the first surge, his face a study in shock, while Bumblebee's arms flailed out of the water.

That said, the Decepticons still exhibited an air of incredulity that annoyed Bumblebee—and, for that matter, Knock Out.  They just couldn't seem to believe there was anyone planetside who didn't know the _Heretic_ was submerged.

"Well, you see, Air Commander," Knock Out said with a false sweetness, "nobody told us the ship was underwater and so, it being a _space_ ship and all, we felt it was safe to assume that it was _wasn't_ underwater. Silly of us, I know."

"But surely the Autobots _talked_ about it?" Starscream asked.

"Not that I recall," Knock Out said promptly.  "Bumblebee?"

"Um. No. Maybe they . . . forgot."

"Unlikely," Megatron said, "seeing as they disabled the vessel themselves."

Knock Out drew back, looking surprised and actually a bit outraged. "The _Autobots_ disabled the _Nemesis?"_

The _Heretic_ , you idiot, Bumblebee thought despairingly.  Not the _Nemesis_.  The worst part was that he had made the same mistake at least twice during his initial questioning.  Primus only knew how the Decepticons would interpret that. 

"Indeed, the Autobots coordinated a stealth attack on the engines of the . . . ship."  Oh yes, Starscream had definitely noticed that slip-up.  Great.  "And so, here we are."  She strode over to the wall and pressed a sequence of numbers into the datapad there.  Gears grinding softly, the hangar's doors swung forward.

"Wait a minute!" Bumblebee yelped;  Knock Out was backing away.  "Aren't we under—oh."

A frigid wind swept into the room, whistling through the seams in Bumblebee's armor as he moved to stare out at the slate-grey water rolling beneath him.   The thick fog rolling over the water could not entirely hide the distant arc of shoreline, nor the mammoth masses of ice simultaneously stretching up the valleys and overhanging the water.  Directly below, shallow sweeps of water washed over the main deck of the _Heretic,_ but the tall structures at the bow of the ship reared out of the bay, just as the Towers did.

"Well, that explains a lot," Knock Out mumbled.  He drew back as Starscream tapped the pad again, swinging the doors closed again.  "I can truthfully say," he went on, "that we didn't know any of this. At least _I_ didn't.  Did _you,_ Bumblebee?"

"No, Knock Out, I did not."  Bumblebee resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"I believe you . . . but you could have refrained from wandering off on your own, at least," Starscream scolded. "Vehicons aside, you could have gotten lost."

There was no way she could have known he was a fully trained scout, but Bumblebee still felt somewhat offended.  Even if he had, in fact, become temporarily . . . disoriented . . . for a time.  He _could've_ found his way back on his own.  He could've! "That wasn't—wouldn't have been—a problem.  I wanted to stretch my legs and someone had already shown Knock Out around—"

"Trauma," the red grounder supplied.

"So it's not like we didn't know where we were going."

"That's right.  I took him to the Library," Knock Out said.  "Then the Vehicons attacked, and before we knew it we were being chased all over the _N—"_

Bumblebee pinged him, once.

"— _Heretic,"_ Knock Out finished with barely a break.  He did not so much as glance at Bumblebee.

"The young learn best by doing, Starscream," Megatron said indulgently.  "And although the raids are unpleasant, our young newcomers will have to learn to deal with them sooner or later if this is to be their home."

"There are five Citizens in the med bay who 'dealt with' the Vehicons by _dying_ at their hands, Lord Megatron, and I would prefer to lessen the odds of these younglings meeting the same fate," Starscream said drily.

Megatron's face became grave.  "They shall be mourned.  But such things are inevitable in war, my Second.  Still—you have a point."

"Of course she has a point."  Knockdown was standing in the doorway, watching.  Impossible to say how long he'd been there.  "Knock knock," he added.  His temperament differed so much from Knock Out's that there was no hint of irony or playfulness in the words.  He was alerting them to his presence, not indulging in wordplay.

"Ah, Doctor.  You have a suggestion?" Megatron inquired.

"Yes; they should be fitted up with communicators, obviously.  But that's not what I'm here about.  These two need treatment for saltwater before it starts effecting their internals.  And so do you, Megatron, and Soundwave as well.  You," he looked at Starscream, "get off easy.  Wash your feet and legs thoroughly with solvent—including the ankle joints—and you'll be fine."

"Gladly, Knockdown," Megatron said, "as soon as I relieve the ship our Vehicon prisoners.  We are thinking of dumping them in Death Valley this time—"

"No, _now._ I know how you are. If I let you sneak out you'll never come back."  The cyan medic crossed his arms, head tilted back to give the gladiator towering over him a stony look.

"You see how it is," Megatron turned to Bumblebee and Knock Out, amusement mixed with pride.  "My crew is not to be trifled with.  Even those not meant for warfare.  Very well, Doctor, now it shall be."

"I'll find Soundwave and get him to the medical bay," the black, gold, and maroon Second-in-Command said briskly.  "He's easier to direct in person than over the comms."

"Thank you.  The rest of you, follow me."  Knockdown led them back to the medical bay, then began searching through the cabinets for the appropriate chemical additives to neutralize salt contamination.  He found two packets.

Unfortunately they had a bitter taste.  Because of this, he would make sure that Megatron drank first.  Like many gladiators, Megatron would fearlessly face down certain death, but balked at minor unpleasantness.  Knockdown had never understood it.

"Knock Out." Gesturing for the red grounder to come over, he set three cubes of energon in front of him, plus the two packets.  "Stir this in until it dissolves.  Not too fast." 

No time like the present to start training his new assistant, and Knock Out nodded amicably at the order.  The grounder stirred the gritty powder into the energon while Knockdown hunted behind bottles and boxes for a third packet. There had to be one somewhere . . .

"Sooo . . ."

The jet looked over his shoulder at the sound of Knock Out's drawling voice.  The clone was stirring lazily, watching the granules dissolve into the solution.

"Lord Megatron said you weren't meant for warfare.  Does that mean you don't fight?"

"I've had to fight my way to patients before and sometimes I fly on strafing runs with the Armada.  But generally speaking, no.  I'm a medic.  Most valuable saving lives, not taking them."   He couldn't quite interpret Knock Out's expression—a smile, but a slightly crooked one, and a surprisingly shrewd look in his young optics. Knockdown had seen Soundwave's video.  He'd seen the energon splattering the red paint before the water blasted it off. And then there'd been the Vehicons back at the energon mine.  "You won't be put in the line of fire again if we can help it.  If _I_ can help it."

"Glad to hear it.  Although I don't know what difference it would make at this point." Knock Out gave a little snort of laughter, running a hand down his scratched and scarred chassis with a rueful expression.  Setting the first energon cube aside, he began stirring the second one.  "You spoke raaaather . . ." He searched for the right word.  "Rather _forcefully_ to Lord Megatron.  Considering."

"Well, he doesn't listen otherwise," Knockdown said, standing on tiptoes to feel around the back of the cabinet.   Ah, finally . . . he plucked a third packet out.  He paused before handing it to Knock Out. "You don't have to call him 'Lord', you know.  Starscream's the only one who does and that's just her personality.  He won't demand it from you.  Or from anyone."

Knock Out tore the packet open and poured the contents into a cube, tapping it against the rim to get the last grains out.  "I'd rather not get out of the habit."

"Well, if it makes you more comfortable."  Maybe Trauma would get somewhere with him.  If not, Starscream, at least, would be pleased.  She did like formality.  Unlike Megatron.  "I'd still like to work on your arm tonight, if you're feeling up to it.  We've cleared out the more serious injuries from the Vehicons."  Airachnid's evacuation protocols had worked well, although five unfortunates had still lost their sparks when they got trapped in a supply room. 

Knock Out rubbed his hand down his arm, wincing as his fingers grazed over hinges where his door had been attached.  "Fine by me."

* * *

The drugs didn't wear off until quite some time after the operation to rewire his arm.  This was fortunate, as his hazy state prevented Knock Out from really taking a good look at the replacement door on his left arm until much later, after the med bay had emptied for the night.

Thus there was no one around to hear his shriek of horror and rage.

The replacement was . . . it was HIDEOUS, that's what it was!  A plain white panel, cheap _plastic_ (cheap plastic touching his chassis!), and, and, and it wasn't even a _door,_ just a vaguely door-shaped THING! 

Knock Out pushed off the berth and paced, hands gesticulating towards the ceiling and describing angry arcs as he called his absent counterpart a hack, a fraud, un _doubt_ edly a medical school _dropout,_ and an Autobot sympathizer bent on demoralizing the Decepticon cause.  It wasn't until he reached the more mundane insults—slagsucker, fragger, and so on—that Knock Out calmed down and remembered that Knockdown had told him, while he was still drugged up, that the paneling was temporary.

"Just until we can fabricate something better," he'd said. "We haven't done much with automotive parts, but I'm sure we'll manage."

"You'd better manage," Knock Out hissed, but nevertheless he was mollified as he righted the chair he'd overturned. 

Temporary.  It was a Pit-damned piece of scrap and a crime against good taste, but it was temporary.  He wanted so _badly_ to rip it off the way Smokescreen had ripped off his actual, perfect, glossy door.  The pain hadn't been that bad.  He could endure pain better than he could endure this insult to his chassis.  But that wouldn't fit in with the wide-eyed innocent clone persona he'd worked so hard to establish, now would it?

"Ugh."  Knock Out tipped his head, taking in not only his arm, but the scrapes down his chest, the scratches, the furrows . . . He'd been trying to ignore the _constant abuse_ to his beautiful finish, partly because he'd been too busy trying to survive to attend to it, partly out of a vague, superstitious fear that if he complained too soon, something even worse would happen to it.  (He blamed a traumatic experience with a train in a certain New York City subway tunnel for _that_ little bit of paranoia.)  But at this moment of quiet in the dead of night, he had to face the facts:  he looked _awful._ And oh how he hated that, when he didn't look like his _true_ self, the gleaming, polished mech he could see so clearly in his head.

Moping wouldn't change anything, though, and there was no one to rant at.  Knock Out took the more practical approach, exiting the room—he was the one in the Auxiliary this time, he had no idea where they'd stashed the scout—and poking around the med bay until he found a stack of polish cloths.  Polishing first, buffing later.  Soon he had worked up a sort of shine to what remained of his paint and even to the silver underneath.

He swept the room again, looking for a buffer or, oh, _anything_ to make himself feel shinier still. The lights were dimmed down, this late at night, and he couldn't find anything that fit the bill. He expanded his search, looking under counters, in drawers, in cupboards . . .

When he opened the cupboard Knockdown had rooted through earlier, three bottles fell out;  he just managed to catch them all.  His lip curled as he stared at the clutter . . . empty boxes shoved in the back, jars sitting sideways on top of other jars, dusty decanters, at least one of which had a live spider in it, and two which had dead ones.

Maybe he couldn't clean up his chassis to his satisfaction, but he could at least tackle _this_ chaos.

He started by taking everything out of the cupboard, dusting the shelves, and setting aside all the empty vials and boxes for disposal.  The decanters and flasks didn't even _belong_ there;  he washed them and moved them to the other side of the lab.  He crushed the spider, smirked down at its tiny corpse for a moment, and washed his hands.  Organics.  Even the tiny ones were disgusting and filled with _ooze._

Now the medications.  He sorted them by type, sneering at the sheer amount of painkillers.  What utter weaklings Autobots were.  Or in this case not Autobots, but . . . well, anyway.  _Weaklings._   But as long as the stuff was there anyway . . . He tossed back two pills of the appropriate prescription.  His arm ached from the surgery and, unlike some, he _deserved_ a little relief.

Plenty of room in the cupboard with the empty boxes and glassware gone.  Knock Out restocked it and leaned back to regard the neat rows of bottles and carefully sorted boxes.  He crossed his arms, feeling a rare, warm glow in his spark.  Not only had he improved a tiny corner of the universe, but he would score major points with Knockdown.  Oh yes, he was such a sweet, _helpful_ little clone.  Knock Out prowled around the lab again in a sort of victory lap, feeling saintly and smug and triumphant.

And what was _this?_   He twitched a thin sheet off a gurney tucked in the corner and found himself looking down at a dead Vehicon.  One of the orange Decepticon ones, what did they call them again?  Citizens.  What a silly name.  Four more corpses were stashed nearby, two to a gurney. This one, the first one, was the most presentable, having taken one shot to the chest, right to the spark chamber.  A quick, merciful death.

A death that had left the rest of the frame completely undamaged . . .

Hmmm.

Knock Out had to search around a bit before he found the controls for the overhead light.  He brought them up out of their night-time dim before dumping the corpse onto the main table.  He straightened its limbs, carefully righted the head that was lolled limply to the side.

He smiled as he flipped out his buzzsaw.

So _helpful._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, I just realized I could display actual images here! So here's a picture of Knockdown.
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://kagekirite.deviantart.com/art/Shattered-Glass-Seeker-Knock-Out-332661985)
> 
>  
> 
> From [Kagekirite](http://kagekirite.deviantart.com/) on DA. The picture predates the fic; it was what inspired me to make Knock Out's counterpart a Seeker.


	21. Disassembling and Dissembling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight changes--I decided that Knockdown's office is on the same floor as the med bay itself, as that wouldn't require that much space. (His personal quarters are still on one of the floors above.) 
> 
> I also decided the Citizens / "Decepticon Vehicons" are still "faceless" (like the regular universe ones, with the visors and all), as it seems unlikely that the Autobots would bother to replace their faceplates, and I definitely want the Autobot Vehicons to be faceless.
> 
> I'll be making the appropriate changes to earlier chapters. :)

No exorciser harm thee!  
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!  
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!  
Nothing ill come near thee!  
Quiet consummation have;  
And renownèd be thy grave!

\- William Shakespeare, "Cymbeline"

* * *

The lights were on.  That was the first thing Knockdown noticed.

The second was Knock Out, asleep at one of the operating tables, his head resting over his folded arms.  Steady ventilations breathed out of his shoulder vents and his expression was calm, relaxed.  A stack of polishing cloths, some new, some used, and a small container of polish sat at the red mech's elbow, while little curls of organic material—paper?—lay scattered in front of him. 

Careful not to disturb the sleeper, Knockdown leaned over to pick up one of the crumpled, brightly colored scraps.  It clung to his fingers as he turned it over, the stickiness on the back causing the paper to bunch in on itself.  It was a kind of glossy decal showing an abstract interpretation of an Earth flower.  Stickers, the Humans called them.  Popular decorations with the Citizens, although they weren't really supposed to have any contact with Humans. Airachnid still hadn't figured out how they smuggled them on board . . .

Come to that, how had Knock Out come into possession of them?  Reaching for another wadded up sticker, the cyan medic suddenly froze.

Because it was at this point that he noticed the third thing.  The head. 

With both arms folded around it, Knock Out cuddled it to his chassis, his own gleaming red helm resting sideways against the orange paint of the decapitated Citizen.  Dim grey blotches of residue ran down the side of the helm, but the gluey substance had been raised into thin weals in places, pushed back around the edges by an encroaching tide of gloss.  About half the helm was still matte, and there was one tiny sticker along the curve of the jaw, shaped like a star, that Knock Out had seemingly missed.

For a few seconds Knockdown simply stared at the scene, so peaceful yet so macabre, not quite believing.  Then his optics caught a glimpse of something orange on the far side of the operation table.  He didn't want to know. He really, really didn't want to know.  He stepped around the table anyway.

Arms.  Arms and legs in neat piles, lefts with lefts and rights with rights.  Sleek coils of cabling, secured with thin, twisted loops of wire.  Empty medicine boxes, devoid of medicine at least, but each filled with gears or bolts, sorted by size.  Struts.  Hydraulics.  Chest armor, shoulder armor, stacked and fitted into interlocking bundles, as though factory new.

In fact, everything gleamed like new, from the chestplates to the tiniest gears.  The armor might have had a few scratches and dents, but still it was polished to a shine.  It was all pristine, clean . . .

All but the motley tangle of the burnt and fractured components in the corner.  A surprisingly small pile, really.

Knockdown kept casting little glances back at Knock Out.  Instinctively, he felt the red mech should've been . . . attacking or laughing maniacally.  But he slept on, serene, merely sighing a little without opening his optics.  As he shifted, a thin thread of silver gleamed between his arm casing and his door. The edge of his buzzsaw.

 

_[Adorable yet disturbing image by[Grey Liliy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/865388/chapters/1942654/). <3]_

Knockdown's wings were hiking up; he forcibly pulled them to a calmer position.  He crossed his arms, tapping his fingers in a successive row on his armor, then uncrossed them.  Sending a message to Trauma and _readying_ an emergency message to Starscream _(just in case)_ , Knockdown grabbed his double by the shoulder and _shook._

"Hwuh!  Wha!"  Knock Out jerked upright so fast he almost fell backwards off the stool.  Knockdown drew back as both buzzsaws leaped out, but the ruby red grounder only dug the teeth into the table to pull himself forward. 

"Where . . . oh.  _Oh."_   The saws flipped back into hiding and Knock Out tipped his head as he smiled his charming smile.  "Good _morning,_ Doctor."  When the blue surgeon didn't respond right away, Knock Out inquired, "It _is_ morning, isn't it?"

"Yes." 

"Mmmm!"  Knock Out stretched luxuriantly.  His eyes dropped to the orange helm in front of him before shoving it casually to the side.  "Sorry about the mess."  He idly impaled a few shriveled stickers on his claws.  "I fell asleep midway through, I suppose."

"That seems likely."

"Strange little things."  He rubbed his fingers together, rolling and shredding the brightly colored decals.

"Stickers."

"Oh, is that what they are?  The paper part is easy enough to get rid of, but then there's this organic _goo_ underneath."He spread one hand over the top of orange helm, picking it up and turning it to show Knockdown. 

The Seeker said nothing, and when Knock Out held the helm out, clearly expecting him to take it, he simply didn't move.  He did, however, send another message to Trauma.

Knock Out's eyes narrowed just a bit at the lack of response, his optics fixed on Knockdown as he set the head back on the table with a slight thump.  Then his carefree expression returned as he shrugged, sauntering around the table to admire the rest of his handiwork. 

"Still, things went smoothly overall, I'd say."  Walking up and down in front of the disassembled Citizens, the red mech radiated such an air of self-satisfaction that Knockdown could almost feel it rolling over him in an oily wave. "Plenty of salvage.  The other cranial units are in that box over there; thought you might want to compare their coding with those Autobot Vehicons and see 'where it all went wrong', so to speak.  Unless you'd rather have me break them down?"

"No."

"No, I thought not.  Sometimes it's more useful intact, isn't it?"  He hooked an arm off the floor and idly tested the elbow joint, flexing the limb between his hands.  _"Oh!_   And I also organized the cabinets!"  He tossed the arm on the table and trotted over to open a cabinet which, thankfully, contained nothing more sinister than antibiotics, cleansers, and nanites. 

"You've been busy."  Knockdown's optics kept sliding back to the table.

"Well," Knock Out said modestly. His silver-grey hand flashed in an elaborate gesture, fingertips pressed briefly against his red chassis before flitting sideways and upward.  _No need to thank me,_ was the clear meaning, _although, given my hard work, you certainly SHOULD._

Knockdown moved over to take a closer look at the cupboard.  The bottles and boxes were organized exactly as he would've done, had he ever found the time.  _Exactly._

"Very . . . good job.  With the cabinets."  He turned towards the red mech (who looked underwhelmed and slightly disgruntled) and pointed two fingers towards what had not long ago been the bodies of five bots whom Knockdown had sworn to serve and protect.  "Move the . . . remains  . . . into the back room, please, and then meet me in my office."

Knock Out's eyes went wide at that, then wary. But he picked up the box of "cranial units" and got to work.

Meanwhile Knockdown sequestered himself in his office, allowing him one brief moment to lean against the wall and slide his hand down his face. He vented out a huge breath.  No need to call Starscream.  Knockdown protected his staff.  Even staff members who had only been working for him for one day and thought nothing of desecrating corpses.

What, he wondered, had he gotten himself into?

* * *

Soundwave absently petted Laserbeak's wings as she nestled on his chest.   He would have liked to have petted Buzzsaw, too, but Buzzsaw was fitted to his back armor, out of reach, and having him there made Soundwave feel . . . protected.  He did not really want to think about yesterday, when uncomfortable things had happened and he'd had to visit the medical bay and been bossed into removing his faceplate to drink some unpleasant concoction and when Starscream was so insistent about needing that video clip. 

And now here was Starscream at his door and he really wished she wasn't, because he was tired.  He hadn't slept well, and he didn't want to think about that, either.  He just wanted to draw, or maybe talk with Trauma.  He was scheduled to talk with Trauma, later.

"Ah, Soundwave . . . feeling better, I hope?" Starscream asked.

He nodded because he was at least feeling better than he had the day before.

"I wonder if you could look something up for me." 

She paused and he nodded again.  He could.  Just get on with it.

"Thank you, my dear.  I would like to know if there are any records of a vessel called the _Nemesis_."

After a fraction of a second, Soundwave began transmitting data to her.  There was a sailboat called the _Nemesis_ in Annapolis, Maryland.  There was a fishing boat called the _Nemesis_ in Anchorage, Alaska.  There was a—

Starscream cleared her throat.  "I am specifically wondering about _Cybertronian_ vessels."

Soundwave initiated another search.  There were fifteen different starships called the _Nemesis_ in Cybertronian history;  it was a very popular name.  There was a Cybertronian shuttle called the _Nemesis,_ eventually refitted and renamed the _Avalon_ five point six millions years before the war.  There was a Cybertronian satellite repair craft call the _Nemesis,_ burnt up during re-entry four point four million years before the war.  There was—

"Soundwave . . ."  Starscream shuttered her optics and massaged her head with her fingers.  "Active!  Are there any _active_ Cybertronian ships called the _Nemesis_?  _Active."_

Oh.  Why hadn't she asked that to begin with?  He shook his head.  No.  No, there were not.

"Hm.  Well, thank you.  Carry on."  She gave a regal wave of her fingers and walked away, her heels clicking.

Soundwave cleared the search from his processor, including the information on the _Nemesis_ , the sister ship of the _Heretic,_ which had been destroyed while still in drydock.

There was no reason to tell Starscream about it.

She hadn't asked.

* * *

Trauma flipped his internal alarm clock off the minute it started blaring, without unshuttering his optics, without fully waking up.  Yesterday had been a grueling ordeal—first all the battle injuries, then finishing up with Knock Out's arm, which _really_ could have waited.  But Knockdown liked to get things done now now now.

At least they hadn't had any overnight patients, Knock Out aside—really a miracle, considering there'd been a raid.  Even better, Trauma's schedule was clear until 11, when he would meet with Soundwave. His current plan was to sleep right up until 10:59 . . .

There was an internal ding as he received a text message.  Drowsily he checked the sender.  Knockdown.  He opened it.

_::Come to med bay.::_

What?  No.  Had to be a mistake.  Wasn't scheduled to be in the med bay today.  Trauma dropped back into recharge. 

Thirty minutes later he floated back towards consciousness.  He had a vague feeling that he'd received—yes, more incoming messages.  All from Knockdown.

_::Come to med bay.  Immediately.::_

_::Where are you?  Come to med bay.::_

_::Come to med bay.  I'm in my office.  Do not disturb.  Later we will talk about tardiness.::_

"Scraaaaap," Trauma moaned, half rolling, half leaping off his berth.  Three messages?  Four, including the first one. That added up to a furious boss who would soon be hissing quiet yet ominous reprimands at him.  But really, couldn't they take a break just this _once?_

 _::Sorry.  On my way.::_   Trauma sent off the message as he hurried into the corridor.  His room was near the original medical bay.  Unlike Knockdown, whose quarters were a few floors up from the new medical bay, Trauma had elected to stay in his original suite.  It was _nice_ having some physical distance from his workplace.  At least, it was nice until you had to run down the halls in the hopes that your perfectionist boss wouldn't kill you for being forty-five minutes late.

Trauma finally reached the medical bay, panting a little as he drew air through his mouth as well as his vents.  Knockdown was nowhere in sight, nor were there any patients about.  Anyway, Knockdown had said he'd be in his office . . . He certainly wouldn't shut himself in there if a patient needed help.

And speaking of the office . . . Trauma moved closer to the closed door, fascinated.  He could _hear_ Knockdown!  Given the thickness of the door and the surgeon's normal, quiet tone, that was extraordinary!  Wait . . . ah . . . not Knockdown, Knock _Out._   His indignant tone was interspersed with murmured responses, barely audible, from Knockdown.  Trauma couldn't make out what Knockdown was saying, but he caught the occasional phrase from Knock Out when he hit a particularly powerful crescendo.

" . . . whole _point_ of generics! . . . . . . . . . . . aren't _using_ them anymore . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . go to _waste?"_

None of which enlightened Trauma in the least.  He sent a message to Knockdown indicating he'd arrived in the medical bay.  The response was brief, but puzzling:

_::Good.  Be with you in a few minutes.  Don't look in the back room.::_

Knockdown was a skilled medic and highly intelligent.  But he had his blind spots. And he was no psychologist.

Trauma's eyes immediately went to the back room.

What could be in there?  Not a patient, because the back room, the room behind the one-way mirror, was for watching the operating theater, not for housing patients.  And really all they used it for these days was storage.  Could something be _shut_ in there?  An animal, perhaps?  It could happen;  back when the ship had still been airborne, they'd ended up with some seagulls in the upper levels and it had been an ordeal to shoo them out.  That had been Dreadwing's fault, of course, he'd secretly been feeding them . . . The med bay was in the Towers now, still above water, so maybe another bird . . . ?  

It wouldn't hurt, would it, if he just took a peek?

* * *

"You're just going to let all those components go to _waste?"_  

Knockdown gazed at his clone over his fingers, which were locked together in a sort of square.  His tone was level. "Respect for the dead is not a waste."

Knock Out closed his optics and drew in a deep breath. "Respect for the recently deceased is _laudable_ , of course."  Opening his eyes, he gave a strained smile.  "But surely . . . in a time of war . . . "

"In a time of war, our obligations are more important than ever.  To the dead.  To the living who mourn them."

 _"Mourn_ them!"  Knock Out sounded incredulous.

Knockdown raised an optic ridge.  "You don't think they'll be missed?"

"Well . . . I suppose they might be missed by . . . by . . ."  The red mech fumbled for an answer, then tossed his hands upward.  "All right, fine, they're missed!  I'm sorry I broke some sadspark's heart by dissecting their identical, interchangeable chassis!"

"Knock Out . . ."

"Sorry.  I'm _sorry."_ He sounded more sincerely this time, though there was still an edge underneath it.  "I can reassemble them if you want."

Knockdown looked at him for a second.  "That's a very ambitious statement.  Considering the state they've been reduced to."

"Well, it'll take time, of course.  I'm better at breaking them than putting them back together . . . Five Vehicons, completely disassembled—"

 _"Citizens,"_ Knockdown said sharply.  "Not Vehicons."

"—that'd be about five days, a week at most.  Though if you want _my_ opinion, it would be much easier to take five of those Autobot Vehicons and paint them orange."

"No, Knock Out."

"We could even swap the heads."

 _"No,_ Knock Out."

For a moment the red grounder looked like he was going to argue.  Then he brightened a fraction.  "What about the Autobot's little troopers?  Now _there's_ a good source of parts!  No one's going to miss them, hmmm?  And they're the same mold as your, ah, Citizens."

"Yes . . . because that's what they used to be before they were kidnapped and reprogrammed," Knockdown said frostily.

"Ah.  Riiiight. Right."

"Even if they weren't, we don't _scavenge from corpses._   Understand?"

Crossing his arms, Knock Out let his head sink forward on his chest as he muttered something.  It sounded like, "Even Autobot medics scavenge."  Which was no surprise to Knockdown.

"We aren't Autobots. We don't stripmine corpses.  _Understand?"_ he repeated.

"Fiiiine, _yes,_ I understand."  Knock Out looked resigned rather than enthusiastic, but good enough.

"As for reassembling them—One moment."  The cyan medic had just received a message from Trauma.

_::I'm in the back room, WHAT IN THE PIT HAPPENED???::_

Knockdown repressed a sigh.  _::Knock Out happened.  I think that's what they trained him for.::_

_::That's sick!!::_

_::They're Autobots, Trauma.  What's your like schedule today?::_

_::Clear until 11.::_

_::Good.::_

"As for reassembling the bodies," Knockdown said, returning his attention to his doppelganger, who was slouched back in his chair, arms crossed, "I'll let you know.  Right now you're going to go with Trauma for your first session.  Every two weeks, remember?"

"Doesn't that start next week?  I'm sure that's what you said.  Next week."

"No.  Today.  Right now."

" . . . I can hardly wait."

* * *

Bumblebee stared up at the ceiling of his habitation suite.  He wished another wave of Vehicons would attack or that there'd be an earthquake or something, because suddenly, for the first time since he'd gone through that Pit-spawned portal, he had time to lie back and just _think,_ and oh _Primus_ did he miss his friends.   How many days had he been gone?  Three?  Four?  Raf must be worried sick.  Optimus and the rest of the Autobots would search for him, but there was nothing to find.  Would he ever get back? 

He'd given up the idea of telling the Decepticons the truth.  They might be the good guys, but there was still something so _Decepticon-ish_ about them, something calculating, far too efficient, maybe even a little ruthless.  Trauma had apologized to "the clones" for triggering Soundwave (and provided them with a list of words and phrases to avoid at all costs), but what the scrap kind of plan was that to begin with?  To antagonize someone—a _friend!—_ who was clearly half-crazy at the best of times?  Optimus would never have done that.  Ultra Magnus wouldn't have.  It was a plan that had "Decepticon!" written all over it, the kind of Decepticon that Bumblebee was all too familiar with. 

And yet . . . Trauma had been trying to save them . . .

Bumblebee groaned, covering his face with his servos as he wished for the familiarity of people he _understood._

Instead, a knock on the door brought him face to face with Starscream and . . . hoooo boy . . . Skyquake.

"Hello again, Bumblebee," Starscream greeted him.  "I'm pleased to say that Skyquake here has volunteered to show you around the ship."

From the look on Skyquake's face, he had been volunteered, but nevertheless he nodded.  "Yeah."

"Oh . . . great," Bumblebee said.  Being shown around the ship by Skyquake.

Skyquake, whose brother had been killed by Bumblebee's counterpart in this universe.

Skyquake, whom _Bumblebee himself_ had killed in his own universe.

Yeah, this wouldn't be awkward at all.

"And as far as employing your talents," Starscream was saying, "I'm going to register you as a General Assistant, my dear.  You'll be able to try your servo at anything until you find something that's 'you.'"

"All right.  Thanks."  He couldn't help but feel guilty for not being more genuinely grateful, but he really just wanted to get home . . . "Well."  He looked at Skyquake.

"Yeah.  C'mon, I'll show you the energon dispensary first."

Skyquake proved to be a 'Con of few words.  "Here's the energon dispensary."  "This is the Library."  "This is the bridge."  (No one on it except a single Vehicon—Citizen?—manning a computer station.)

"And here's the arena."  He gestured around a surprisingly spacious room, except "room" didn't really do it justice, it was practically an indoor coliseum.  "Shooting range is through that archway.  Every couple weeks they have a big event.  Big fights, you know.  Three bots against Megatron or whatever.  He always wins."  For a moment his tone was no longer flat, but full of admiration.

"It's gigantic," Bumblebee said, staring around.  Huge blocks of metal were scattered around the floor, to serve as obstacles or cover, he guessed.

"Gotta be big for aerial fights," Skyquake explained. Then he looked embarrassed.  "But lots of bots fight on the ground too," he assured the car-bot.

Bumblebee just nodded.  It was no surprise to him that a ship full of Seekers liked aerial combat.  "Hey, you know how I'm looking for, well, a job?"

"Yeah," Skyquake said cautiously.

"Who's in charge of technical stuff like, ohhhh, the ground bridges?"

"Head of Communications.  That'd be Soundwave.  But I don't think he's really up to having an apprentice right now because, well, you know."

 _Because he's flipping nuts. Great._  

"Communications is a one-bot show," Skyquake went on, "But if you're into building stuff, you should try the Engineering division."

"Who runs that?"

"Ummm.  Shockwave, technically, but . . ."

"But?"

Skyquake's whole face seemed to furrow, his frown was so deep.  "He's not actually on board," he said at last. "Hasn't been for a while."

Bumblebee wasn't too surprised.  He'd heard plenty of references to Shockwave, but always accompanied by a slight tension.  "Oh.  So . . . where is he?"

"Dunno.  He's just . . . out there.  Somewhere."

How completely uninformative.  "So he just left?  What's his deal?"

"You're a nosy little groundpounder, aren't you?" Skyquake growled, then covered his face with his hand.  "Sorry, that . . . that was rude. Look, if you ask ten different mechs what went down with Shockwave, you're gonna get ten different answers.  No one really knows.  No, scratch that—everyone _thinks_ they know.  All _I_ know is that something got fragged up between him and Soundwave after he was taken hostage.  Fragged up _bad._   Only Shockwave and Soundwave know exactly what happened, I guess.  But for the love of Primus, DON'T go asking Soundwave.  That poor bot has been through a lot."

Rightly or wrongly, Bumblebee interpreted this as "Soundwave will go crazy and try to murder you if you ask him."   But "taken hostage"?  That sounded interesting . . .

"But you said I should look at the Engineering division, and if Shockwave's gone--"

"Oh, there's still engineers.  Spool's more or less running the team now.  One of the Citizens."

 _One of the Vehicons,_ Bumblebee thought.  "Thanks, I'll look into it."

They walked in silence for a time.

"Hey, Skyquake," Bumblebee asked suddenly, "are there any Humans aboard the _Ne—"_ Great, now he was doing it.  "—aboard the _Heretic_?  Like, Human allies . . . Partners . . ."

"Humans?" Skyquake looked startled.  "What would Humans be doin' on board?  Human _partners?_ How would that even work?  Fraggin' things are tiny.  They'd be no good in a fight."

"They can—could—still be a big help," Bumblebee argued.

"Sure, sure, small people are still useful," Skyquake said hastily, misinterpreting Bumblebee's defensiveness.  "But no.  We steer clear of Humans whenever we can.  Don't want 'em getting caught in the crossfire, you know?  They're fragile."

"Yeah . . ."  Bumblebee tried to keep the depression out of his voice.  No Raf.  Not even an alternate-universe Raf.  "What about the Autobots?  They don't have Human allies, do they?"  Evil Raf . . .?

"You don't know?" Skyquake looked at him curiously, and Bumblebee's spark flipped nervously as he remembered that, _duh,_ he was supposed to be an _Autobot clone._   But Skyquake was still speaking.  "Guess they really kept you two in the dark, huh?  Nah, the Autobots don't have nothin' to do with Humans.  They'll squash 'em if they get in their way, but that's about it."

"They'll _squash_ them?  Don't you Decepticons defend them?  Like you said, Humans are fragile, it's not their fault they're caught up in our war—"

"Nope, best not to get involved.  If we showed that we cared, they'd go after Humans all the time just t' spite us.  Or take the little guys hostage," Skyquake said indifferently.

And given Bumblebee's experiences in his own universe, it was hard to argue with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundwave is like the Google search that gives you every result except the one you want.
> 
> Also, please regard this amazing fan art by [Laserbot / Ask-Dr-Knockout](http://ask-dr-knockout.tumblr.com/post/61065264517/the-last-scene-from-the-latest-chapter-19-the-i)!! Shrill screams of delight when I saw this, I assure you.
> 
>  


	22. In the Maze

I see the ship in the harbor;  
I can and shall obey.  
But if it wasn't for your misfortune  
I'd be a heavenly person today.  
And I thought I was mistaken,  
And I thought I heard you speak.  
Tell me, how do I feel?  
Tell me now, how should I feel?

\- Orgy, "Blue Monday"

* * *

Most Decepticon frontliners— _real_ Decepticons, the ones from Knock Out's world—scorned the legitimacy of psychology, psychiatry, and generally any branch of science that didn't involve vials of colored liquid, explosions, or exploding vials of colored liquid.  Anyway, Decepticons were supposed to be strong, unemotional (unless the emotion in question was fury or bloodlust), and in control of themselves.  Being  wounded physically was bad enough;  mental distress was considered a sure sign of a weak spark.

Most Decepticons _medics,_ on the other hand, were fully in favor of the mental health disciplines.  Whether their support arose from a genuine desire to help the war-strained, the depressed, and the struggling was questionable;  more likely they wanted to dump some invalids on someone else. It was no secret that the field surgeons regarded their patients as a sort of second enemy.  As the war dragged on and the number of medics dwindled, it was not uncommon to hear comments such as "Fifteen dead and only two survivors—thank Primus." 

At the best of times, wounded Decepticons lashed out—out of pain or fright or just because they felt like everyone around them should be suffering as much as they were.  And while that most final of gifts, _mercy,_ was sure to inspire a final burst of wild aggression in a soldier, the non-fatally wounded were almost as bad—stronger, more alert, and more capable of inflicting damage.  The old quip was often bandied about the field hospitals:  "There are only two types of dangerous patients . . . The mercy cases, and the rest of them."  Decepticon medics learned to dodge.

So the fact that, _in addition_ to all that, an otherwise cooperative patient might suddenly lash out, triggered to the point of violence by some innocuous phrase (and every medic had seen it happen—Knock Out had once dealt with a Seeker who started blasting indiscriminately if anyone said the word "Cybertron") was not something that made the doctors rejoice. 

In the view of the Decepticon High Command, on the other hand, a 'Con trooper only needed as much mental stability as was required to move towards the enemy while shooting in the right direction.  And the medics gave a collective shrug and accepted that because, really, what else could they do?

So, like most of his colleagues, Knock Out held a benign view of psychology in general . . . even if he tensed up a little at the thought of it being applied to him _specifically._  

 _But that's what you get, Knock Out, for getting_ involved, he thought to himself.  _You should have sniveled out an apology and left it at that. Who cares if they cosset their dead Vehicons?_

Too late to correct that mistake, though. Nothing to do but soldier on. He had only a vague notion of what therapy actually entailed (the Trauma from _his_ world had been a field medic), but he'd always imagined it was a more touchy-feely form of interrogation.  And he had certainly proved his skill in _that_ arena.  Yes.  He was going to win this thing.  Yes.  He glanced around the field of battle.

Trauma's office was set far away from the Towers, adjacent to the old, abandoned Med Bay, and it was so homey that Knock Out had initially assumed they were in his personal quarters.  An adjustable chronometer ticked on the wall, set to match Earth's rotation, although the numbers around the edge (one to twenty-four) were in Cybertronian. Pushed to the wall, a desk had attracted a clutter of datapads, holopaper, and dust.  High shelves ran around the top of the room, crowded with datapads and even a few Human books, and below them various framed pictures, paintings, and sketches crowded the walls—pictures of Cybertronian cities, of famous Decepticons (Knock Out recognized some despite their alternate color palettes), holo-photos of Trauma himself with friends (Knock Out recognized a few of them, too), even a few Earth scenes.  The light from the window wavered over them, sunlight rippling through water.

"Does it bother you?" Trauma asked, his hand hovering over the shade.  "The movement makes some bots nauseous."

"No, it's fine."  Knock Out watched the lavender jet as he perched on the chair across from him.  The datapad kept slipping in his hands and Trauma's smile was a bit uncertain.  A bit nervous.  That made Knock Out feel better. Not just that Trauma was nervous, but that the emotion made him seem more unfamiliar, more of a stranger.  He _was_ a stranger.  _Remember that.  He's just a copy, like that femme Starscream.  You never shared energon with him or played cards with him or . . . anything else.  Just a stranger._

He braced himself with a smile, summoned all his glibness, and began to talk.

* * *

"Do you like humans?"

The  question came suddenly as they walked down a corridor lined with plexiglass windows.

"I'm interested in humans," Bumblebee said cautiously.  He thought of Raf and felt that familiar ache of loneliness.  "I guess you could say I like them."

Skyquake didn't say anything else until they stepped out under a curved wall of windows that went straight up to the ceiling.  "This is the Observatory.  One of 'em."

Bumblebee moved close to the windows, almost leaning against the plexiglass as he cupped his servos around his optics, trying to see anything but his own reflection.

"Hang on," Skyquake said, reaching for the controls for the lights.  They gradually dimmed into darkness.  Skyquake took Bumblebee's arm and pulled him back a few steps.  With the interior lights off, the scout was able to see a faint wash of sunlight filtering through the water, giving it a gradient from turquoise to a deep, deep blue farther down. Little specks of organic material freefloated past, pursued by silvery fish.

"It's beautiful,"Bumblebee said.

Skyquake shrugged, the action marked by the shifting of the strangely patterned light across his shoulders.  "A lot of water."  After a moment of silence he said, "What is it you like about humans?"

"What?"  Bumblebee turned around, but all he could see in the darkness were two blue eyes burning somewhere near the door.  He tried to tell himself that there wasn't any hostility in them.  That he just couldn't see them clearly.  "Well, they're imaginative and innovative and even though they don't live very long, they do a lot with their lives," he said cautiously.

"Those aren't real reasons," Skyquake said, and there was a definite growl in his voice now.  "Tell me something REAL."

"Real.  Right."  What was this all about?  Why did Skyquake even care?  "Real.  Well, humans are great builders—considering their level of technology—and can survive in almost any environ—"

"That's a load of generic scrap!" the Seeker snarled, and the blue eyes drew closer.  "Anyone could say that!  It doesn't mean anything!"

"They play racing games!" Bumblebee burst out.  "They play racing games, and they have these little electric cars that race around, with antennas on the back, and they'll cheat by giving you the one with the bad battery!  They learn about their world in school, and they save their favorite subject for last 'cause then it's like a reward, unless they're the type who does their favorite first and then runs off to play!  They fight with their friends, but they always come through, and their little optics always look so fragile and wet, even when they aren't crying, and they'll break your spark when they do cry.  And they run so lightly, and they look so free . . ."  He couldn't go on.  He couldn't.

The blue eyes had disappeared, and he didn't have to.  A moment later the lights turned on.  Skyquake was facing away from Bumblebee.  He waited a few minutes while Bumblebee wiped at his optics and got himself under control.

"Come on," was all he said, his voice gruff but not angry.  "I gotta show you the rest of the ship."

* * *

Later, Trauma would characterize his first session with Knock Out as "interesting."  Not always pleasant, but interesting.

Difficult, too, because the red grounder's answers were colored by a deeply rooted distrust.  He obviously thought there were "right" answers that Trauma wanted to hear;  when Trauma just listened, without either praising or scolding, he became frustrated.  Trauma truly sympathized with him, but at the same time Knock Out's frustration was useful.  When he became frustrated, he became careless.

Because there was no doubt about it, Knock Out was a fantastic liar.  

This did not surprise the therapist;  being raised by Autobots, lying had not only been socially acceptable, but very probably necessary for Knock Out's survival and sanity.  The Autobots barely treated _each other_ with any respect;  how would they treat a physically unimposing clone with a Decepticon frame?   Someone created as a thing, to be used?

"I don't know," Knock Out kept saying in answer to Trauma's questions about his life with the Autobots.  "I don't remember."   Trauma made notes each time, mentally translated the words into their more likely meaning, "I don't want to remember" or "I don't want to talk about that."  And that was fine.  Trauma had all the time in the world to gain the little red mech's trust.  Airachnid might be upset that the clone wasn't being pumped for information, but the sessions were about Knock Out's mental health, not about recon.

 _And I doubt if he'd have any useful intel anyway,_ Trauma thought.  _Goodness, he didn't even know our base is underwater. They clearly kept him and Bumblebee in the dark as much as possible._

"Sooo . . ."  Trauma tapped his stylus to his chin.  "At the energon mine, you told the Vehicons you were a Decepticon."

"That's right."  Knock Out dragged his left foot back a bit, tracing the brake lights on his heel with the tip of his toe.

"Was that something you'd thought about for a while?  Becoming a Decepticon?"

"Oh . . . yes, for a while," Knock Out said.  "It was the first time I actually _said_ it, though.  Out loud."

"And what does that mean to you—being a Decepticon?"

"Autonomy.  Self-control.  Strength.  Superiority."

"Superiority?"

 _"Moral_ superiority." Knock Out had that wary look again.  "Compassion and kindness and . . . and so on."

"You can tell me the truth," Trauma said gently.  Knock Out smiled and gave a slight shrug, but an underlying tension remained underneath the studied casualness. 

Trauma's mind went back to that first night, watching Knock Out in the mirror as he frantically tried to pull free of the stasis cuff chaining him to the bunk.   Clink, clink, clink, CLINK, until he had abruptly stopped and just sat there, thinking.

 _Soundwave's right, he's afraid._ And Trauma would do what he could for him, but there was no magical, instant cure.   It would take time.  In the meanwhile, the lavender jet began working his way around to the subject of Vehicons and Citizens.

And here Trauma discovered the third interesting thing about Knock Out—that he had an almost rabid hatred of Vehicons.

Oh, his statements started out carefully neutral—he "didn't care for" Vehicons, they were dull and uninteresting.  But before long, after a minimal amount of coaxing and prying on Trauma's part—

"They're disgusting, that's what they are."  Knock Out was wearing a slight yet undoubtedly sparkfelt sneer.  "Worthless, nameless, untrustworthy genericons—they'll stab you in the back as soon as look at you—"

"Genericons?" Trauma interrupted. "Meaning . . ."

"You know.   Genericons."  Knock Out waved a hand.  "Generics.  Copies."

"Hmm.  And you?"

Knock Out looked annoyed at having his rant cut short.  "What do you mean, 'me'?  What about me?"

"Well, I was wondering if you saw yourself in the same terms as the 'genericons'."

"Are you . . . are you comparing _me_ to a Vehicon?  ME?"  Knock Out placed a hand on his chest, incredulous and affronted.

"I'm just saying," Trauma said patiently, "that perhaps you know what it's like to be seen as less than unique."

"But I _am_ unique," Knock Out snapped.  "Ah . . . ahhh, that is to say . . . almost unique," he added.  "Knockdown, of course . . . but aside from him . . ."

"Did you always know you were a clone?  I mean, did they tell you?"

"Um.  Ummm, yeees.  Yes."

Trauma noted the hesitation, but he had no reason to doubt Knock Out on this point.  The red bot had, after all, strolled up to Knockdown without the least sign of surprise at their initial meeting.  "And your name?  Was it given, or were you allowed to choose it?"

He answered more readily this time.  "Given.  Given.  It was given."

Trauma wondered if Knock Out knew that Cybertronians normally chose their own names.   "Does it bother you, that it's a derivative of someone else's name?"

"It's not—I mean—"  Knock Out seemed to be struggling through some inner battle.  "No!  It doesn't!"

Of course he hated Vehicons, Trauma reflected.  He could project everything he hated about himself onto them.  He felt slightly guilty about finding the whole thing so _interesting._    "You can change it if you want.  Choose a new identity."

"I am not changing my name," Knock Out said with finality.  "It's _mine."_

Trauma let it go.  If Knock Out was happy with his name, that was all that mattered.  "In the corridor, when I was taking you to the Library—that the first time you'd seen a Citizen, correct?"

"A what?  Oh, them.  That.  Right.  Yes, that was the first time I'd seen one of your . . . Citizens.  I thought it was an orange Vehicon."

"It.  Yes."  Natural, Trauma supposed, that Knock Out would have that view.  They could break him of it in time, but would the Citizens be safe around him in the meanwhile?  "You understand they're an important part of this ship and that—"

Knock Out held up a hand to stop him.  A smile was tugging at the side of his mouth.  "Pardon me, doctor, but I believe what you're reeeally wondering is 'will I kill them in their sleep?'.  Well, I'm not that stupid—and why would I, anyway?   As long as they don't harass me, I won't harass them.  I'm not getting thrown out into the wilderness for any . . . Citizen.  They aren't _worth_ it."

"Ah . . . yes."  Well.  It would have been nice if Knock Out had indicated, somewhere in his little rebuttal, that he valued the Citizens as Cybertronians, or as crewmates, or at least as _people,_ but it was an honest answer, Trauma supposed.   And yet . . .

"Why did the Autobots equipped you with buzzsaws?"

Knock Out looked at him a few seconds before answering. "Because Knockdown has them.  I'm based on his frame."

"But Knockdown doesn't have saws.  He has scalpels."

Knock Out looked genuinely taken aback.  "Then they must have wanted me to be able to cut things apart more quickly."

"Like  Vehicons?"

Knock Out stared at him, so suddenly quiet and still, and there was something unnerving in it.  "Yes.  Like Vehicons."  The red optics were fixed on his face, but they seemed a little unfocused too.   "Among other things."

* * *

Bumblebee walked alongside Skyquake in a silence that he found increasingly uncomfortable.  The jet was basically ignoring him, and Bumblebee wondered if the large aerial would even notice if he quietly fell behind and just left.  But he didn't, because he wanted to know.  He wanted to know why Skyquake had asked him about humans, why he'd been so angry, and why he'd dropped the subject just as quickly as he brought it up.  He wanted to know where they were going now, or _if_ they were going anywhere now.  Maybe they would just walk through the corridors of the ship in silence forever, until they ran out of energon . . .

"Here.  This is it," Skyquake said suddenly, stopping and putting the flat of his hand against a door, just as though Bumblebee should _know_ where they were, as though Skyquake had been talking it up instead of not saying a word. 

The black and yellow bot stared at the door.  It was identical to every other one in the corridor, except there was a rectangle of recently applied paint on it, two-thirds of the way up.  "What is it?" he asked after a few seconds, once it became clear that Skyquake wasn't going to reveal any more without prompting.

"Crew quarters," the jet said.  Well, Bumblebee had figured out THAT much.

"Whose?"

Skyquake rocked back and forth on his heels, glaring at the patch of paint.  "Dreadwing's," he said finally.

"Oh . . . your brother."  Bumblebee shifted guiltily.  Maybe he hadn't been responsible for Dreadwing's death, but he had killed Skyquake, back in his own universe.  What had he been like, really? Beyond just "loyal to Megatron", what had he been like?  Had he been angry and sullen, like this Skyquake?  Or had he been different, happier, since Dreadwing was alive?  "Listen . . . I'm sorry about . . ."

"Here."  Skyquake scribbled something on a scrap of holo-paper and shoved it into Bumblebee's hand.  Numbers.  A series of numbers.  "That's the door code."

"Uh, thanks, but what—"

"The stuff in there.  You can have it.  It's yours now."

"Oh.  Oh, wow.  Thanks, but if it's Dreadwing's—I mean, I appreciate it, but you should have it."

"I do have it.  It's mine.  'Cept now I'm giving it to you, got it?" he said almost threateningly.  "Take it, leave it, throw it out . . . I don't care."  He turned and started down the hall.

"Thank you, Skyquake," Bumblebee called after him.  "I think," he added more quietly.

He looked at the door.  He looked at the code in his hand.  Finally he gathered all his courage and typed in the passcode.  The door slid open, juddering just slightly.

Dented lunchboxes. A rusty bicycle. Chairs so impossibly tiny even Bumblebee couldn't have sat in them.  An equally tiny desk (real wood!) with "Johnny is a butt" carved on the top.  Faded posters and old road signs covering the walls.  Vampire Weekend.  Queen.  Slash Monkey. No Parking.

Bumblebee stepped inside, trembling, and closed the door behind him.

Something unusually soft under his feet.  Fluffy.  A carpet. There was a big rip through the middle that someone had neatly stitched together, and the frayed holes in it were patched with scraps of material. Everything in the room was like that—broken, scarred, or torn, but lovingly restored to the extent that was possible.   A chess set missing half its plastic pieces sat on the tiny desk with only three legs, while a second, Cybertronian sized version of the game was displayed the full-size metal desk, the pieces framed from twisted strands of wire.  Some other signs of Cybertronian habitation, too:  a sketch of Starscream leaning on her hand, half-asleep, a watercolor of Knockdown standing alone on the bridge of the _Heretic,_ a drawing of Airachnid and Dreadwing, or maybe Airachnid and Skyquake—impossible to tell the difference when the medium was black and white.   But mostly—the cat statue in the corner with the uplifted paw, an old computer, the bin full of tiny hats, the tiny scooter, the television set, the books made of real tree pulp—mostly Human paraphernalia, collected by someone who must have loved Humans so very much.

Bumblebee leaned back against the door and wept.  And if someone had asked if it was because he was happy or because he was sad, he would have said "yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first fanmade CGI Transformers video I ever saw was to Orgy's "Blue Monday" (right around 1998 or 1999 I think). It was primitive compared to today's CGI fan videos, but back then it was the coolest, most advanced thing ever. Since there was no Youtube at the time, I had to download it directly. Sadly I no longer have a copy and have not seen it on the interwebs since.
> 
> Oh, also the area where Bumblebee and Skyquake are is at a lower depth than Trauma's office--that's why it's darker down there.
> 
> I don't like the name of this chapter much. May change later, once I think of something better.


	23. Automobiles (Sans Planes and Trains)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WAIT!!!** Go back and reread the previous chapter first, because I made major, major changes to it, and otherwise things won't make sense! (In particular Skyquake and Bumblebee's scenes.)

When we looked out  
The waves crashed,  
Smashing our past.  
Moving fast, nothing lasts,  
Make it last.

This will all pass,  
Just like us,  
Just like this spot.  
Don't miss this,  
We've only got one shot.

— "On the Lookout", Bare Naked Ladies

* * *

Bumblebee went to sleep early that night and dreamed he was helping Raf with his homework.  Watching with concern as he wobbled around on a skateboard.  Playing video games together and laughing whether he won or lost . . .

The scout woke suddenly, and his disorientation at the strange room only increased the speed with which his blasters sprang out.   Strange room, low light, red mech, _Knock Out,_ and the Decepticon had his energy prod, and Bumblebee shot to his feet, ready to fire—

"Whoa!  _Whoa!_   Feeling trigger happy, are we?"  Knock Out  jumped to his pedes, knocking over the chair as he backed up with his palms raised in entreaty.  Bumblebee's recharge-addled processor finally took in the fact that, yes, Knock Out's weapon was laid out on the table, but it was broken in two and the electrical prongs on the end were dark and inactive.

"What are you doing in here?  And with that?" Bumblebee demanded, his chirps and beeps still slurred from sleep.

"Someone dumped it in a corner of the medbay, so I'm fixing it."

"And the reason you're fixing it in my room is . . . ?"

"I wanted to talk, _obviously._   We're going to have to coordinate if we want to pull this thing off.  But when I got here you were asleep, lazybot . . . Oh, here's a gift from our hosts, by the way." 

Something bounced off Bumblebee's helm almost before he registered that Knock Out had thrown it.  He rubbed his head as he looked down at the small, silver disc.  "What's this?"

"External communicator.  They couldn't get my native systems to integrate with their communication setup—mind you, I'll bet Soundwave could have done it if he weren't basically crazy—and if _my_ system wouldn't 'take' then _yours_ certainly won't, sooo . . . this was their well-meaning, if clumsy, solution.  Just jam it under your plating any old place and it should link your system to theirs."

Bumblebee hesitated, not eager to trust a random device handed to him—or thrown at him—by a Decepticon.  "If it works that well, why did they mess with your system at all?  I mean, why not give you this thing to begin with?"

"Ah." Knock Out raised a finger.  "Good question.  Normally you can access a range of channels, correct?  One for each member of your team, I imagine, plus a general broadcast and some emergency lines and such, hmm?  This is basically a single channel—just a general broadcast."

"You mean everyone on the _ship_ will hear us when we comm?"

"No, you can comm individuals, but the message goes through a central hub instead of over individual frequencies.  From there it gets rerouted and—"  Seeing Bumblebee's blank stare, Knock Out sighed.  "Look, just don't send anything private over the lines because there's a good chance the calls are being recorded as they go through the hub."

"'A good chance.'  So you don't actually _know."_

"No, Bumblebee, I do not, in fact, 'actually know.'  I thought it might seem _slightly_ suspicious if my first reaction was, 'Oh thank you, thank you; by the way, you aren't LISTENING IN on us, are you?'."

"It's always sarcasm with you, isn't it?"  Bumblebee pushed the little silver disc into one of his larger arm seams and watched the protocol setup messages pop up on his internal display.  It seemed to be exactly what Knock Out said it was, a simple communicator.  "How'd you get in here, anyway?"

"Phase Shifter."

"I WILL get that back."

"I'm sure you'll _try."_  He smirked as he reached for his staff and began working on it again.

Bumblebee watched him for several minutes, waiting for him to speak again.  He didn't.

"Okay, you've given me the communications thingie.  Thank you.  Goodbye."

"That's not all."  Knock Out frowned as he tried to prise some of the wires out of the heart of his weapon, no easy feat with his clipped claws.

"Okaaay,"Bumblebee said.  _"_ So tell me what else is on your glitching little processor."

"When I'm done." Knock Out didn't look up from his work.

"What do you think this is, your personal workshop?  Do that somewhere else!  You have your own room!"

Knock Out's roll of his shiny red helm, when combined with an exasperated sigh, was a sight to behold.  "If I did that I'd just have to walk back here again later, now _wouldn't I?_   So why don't you just mute your vocalizer like a good little Autobot and let me work?"

"You know what your problem is?  You think the whole world revolves around you."

"No, but in a more perfect world it _would,"_ Knock Out corrected.  "Anyway, how about you?   Telling me to get out of your room?  _Your_ room?  I have more of a right to be here than you."

 _"What?"_ The scout threw his hands in the air.  "How do you figure??"

"Because this is a Decepticon ship, and which one of us is a Decepticon?  Oh right, it's me."

"That is the most twisted logic I've ever heard, and besides you know damn well that they're not Decepticons like you.  They're . . . they're Deceptibots."

Knock Out actually chuckled at that, although it could've just been a mark of satisfaction;  he'd finally fixed the wiring of his staff and electricity crackled along its prongs once more.  Bumblebee watched tensely as the Decepticon twirled the weapon, leaving a brief trail of searing blue light in its wake.

"Deceptibots and Autocons.  All right.  So they are."  Knock Out cut the power to his staff and telescoped it down to a more manageable size so he could slot it behind his back.  "Nice segue, Bug.  Deceptibots are exactly what I wanted to discuss with you."

"Don't call me Bug."

"Specifically, the head doctor," Knock Out went on.  He leaned back in his chair, suddenly serious.  "He's smart.  You'll have to be careful."

"Careful not call the ship the _Nemesis_ a bunch of times, you mean?"

"You did that too!" Knock Out snapped.  "And that can be played off as a glitch—faulty programming or misinformation.  I'm talking about . . ."  He opened both hands as he frowned at the ceiling, perhaps expecting to find what he was talking about written there.  "He digs, and he keeps digging until he gets what he wants."

"What _does_ he want?"

Knock Out looked annoyed.  "I don't know."  After a second he added, "That's not quite true.  He wanted to know if I was a danger to the ship's Vehicon lookalikes.  I finally convinced him I wasn't going to murder them in their sleep."

"Why would he think that?  What did you do?"

"Oh sure, you just _jump_ to the conclusion that I did something wrong."  He crossed his arms.  "And all I did was take a couple orange-and-white corpses they had lying around and strip them down to their base components."  He cocked his head.  "Are you shocked?"

Was he?  The idea was distasteful, but was it shocking?  "I kind of thought that's why they all looked the same, so they could use the same parts on all of them."

"THANK you!  My point exactly!  I can't believe the only one who gets this is an Autobot!"

Bumblebee shifted uncomfortably.  What would Optimus say about it?  Maybe he would be horrified, like the Decepticons.  The Deceptibots.  "Anything else?"

"Tomorrow I begin my quest to bring my hands and my door back to their former glory.  And I will stop at _nothing_ to achieve those ends."

All Bumblebee could think to say was, "Good luck."  The white door replacement on Knock Out's arm _was_ pretty hideous.

"So that's all on my end," Knock Out concluded.  "You?"

"No.  Um.  No, nothing."

"True to your faction, Bumblebee, you're a lousy liar.  Come clean.  We have keep our stories straight."

"Okay, don't overreact—"

"Oh, that's a promising start."

"—but I kind of told, well, not exactly _told,_ but I might have given Skyquake the impression that I knew a human. Like . . . like personally."

"Oh, you did that?  Is that all?"  Knock Out didn't seem upset by the news.  In fact, he was even smiling as he leaned forward in his chair.  "Say, Bumblebee, want to know a secret?"

"Um . . . sure?"

"The secret is," Knock Out said in a whisper that gradually rose in volume, "that right now it is taking every ounce of self-control in my possession not to leap across the room and punch you in the FACE!  _What were you thinking?!"_

Bumblebee scrambled back.  "Hey, it's no big deal!  We'll just tell them there was a human around the Autobot base who—"

"No!  NO!  We do not tell them that, because that's _stupid!"_   There was no trace of Knock Out's previous calm as he paced back and forth across the room, ranting.  "Why would you say that?  Why?  Why??"

"This, THIS from the bot who made up the whole clone story!"

"I didn't make it up, THEY made it up!  They had it in their heads before I said a word to them, _that's why they believe it._   And they'll keep believing it, too, if you don't add stupid addendums like that!"

"You're blowing this way out of proportion!  Skyquake isn't even going to tell anyone!"

"And why do you believe that, _Bug?_   Because he told you?"

"He didn't tell me—"

"Well, wonderful!"

"—I just know it in my spark."

"Primus save me from fools and Autobots!"

 _"_ I'm serious," Bumblebee insisted.  "It was a very intense, intimate moment."

"Intimate?!"  Knock Out's tone changed abruptly and completely as he leaned forward with a devilish grin.  "Oo-la-la, just what have you been getting up to, you bad little Bug?"

"Nothing that your dirty mind would be interested in, apparently!  I didn't mean THAT, I meant intimate like . . . like private!"

"Word of advice, little Autoclone,"  Knock Out smirked.  "Don't go around swapping code with the crew members, it will only lead to complications."  He thought for a moment, then added, "Unless it gives us some kind of tactical advantage, in which case swap away."

"You are disgusting and all I'm getting from your advice is a strong urge not to listen to you."

"You'll see the error of your ways soon enough."  Knock Out said.  "Now, getting back to our current predicament.  Let's reflect on how we got here."

"You said you used the Phase Shifter."

"Ha ha ha.  I mean here in this universe.  If we can reverse the process, we can get back, hopefully."

"Well . . . from what I could tell, your ground bridge opened on the same spot as my ground bridge."

"Mine opened first, yours second," Knock Out corrected.  "So as things stand—hang on."  He reached for that datapad on the table, one that bore a familiar inscription on the back.

"Sudoku?  Now?  Really?"

"Oh, is that what this is?" He grinned as he turned the 'pad around, revealing a blank screen on which he'd already scrawled, "ESCAPE PLANS", and under that a subheading of "Ground Bridges".

"I . . . I don't get it.  Was the datapad mislabeled?"

"No, I reprogrammed it, added a set of hidden files.  We can keep our notes on it."  He looked inordinately pleased with himself.

"What if someone finds it?"

"No one's going to find our data," Knock Out scoffed.  "You have to complete the one-thousand-and-first puzzle with a specific set of numbers to gain access.  The wrong numbers.  So."

Bumblebee grudgingly admitted that was pretty clever.  "All right, let's talk about ground bridges.  First of all, how different are Autobot 'bridges from Decepticon 'bridges?"

"I have _no_ idea.  I don't even know if there is a difference."                                       

"Then why does it matter which 'bridge opened first?"

"It might not matter at all.  On the other hand, it might."

Bumblebee was beginning to feel cheated.  "How can you not know?  You're a Decepticon!" he trilled, spreading his hands in incredulous appeal. "A Decepticon _scientist!"_

"Yeeees, and do you know two words that are missing from that phrase?  'Ground bridge' and 'engineer.'"

"That's three words."

"Not the point.   Anyway, I'm a medic, not a scientist."

"Oh, whatever! You just reprogrammed a datapad, like that!"  Bumblebee snapped his fingers.

"I've been working with datapads since I was a medical intern;  I've been working with ground bridge technology since, hmmm, let me think, when did I last—oh yes, NEVER."

"Oh Primus."  Bumblebee let his face sink into his servos for a moment.  _"_ All right, maybe it won't matter.   I've watched Ratchet activate _our_ ground bridge before.  Maybe it'll work with two Decepticon portals, opened right on top of each other. We can try that, right? And I'm joining the engineering crew, so maybe that'll help?  Somehow?"

"Should give you access to the passcodes we need, at the very least.  Although I could probably figure them out in a pinch."  Knock Out scribbled some notes on his datapad.  "All right, but that still leaves us with a sizeable problem.  Even _if_ we don't need an Autobot ground bridge, we do need two intersecting 'bridges, and there's only _one_ terminal on the ship.  We can only generate one 'bridge from here."

"On this entire warship, there's just one single ground bridge anchor?"

"If it's the same as the _Nemesis,_ and it certainly appears to be, then yes."

Bumblebee's spark seemed to sink all the way to his feet, then proceed on through the floor.  _"_ So we'll need to access the Autobot ground bridge after all.  How in the Pit are we going to do that?"

Knock Out  clicked the stylus between his dental plates.  "I'm open to suggestions."

"Okay, here's a suggestion:  we need to own up and ask for help.  Because this is ridiculous."

"All right."

Bumblebee's optics cycled wide at the unexpected agreement.  "All right?"

"Sure."  Knock Out stood up, taking a few leisurely steps as he stretched, popping the tension out of his arms and back. "As long as you're the one to tell them."

Bumblebee stared at him for a moment.  "Okay, I will."

"Then it's settled.  Oh!  I know!  Why don't you start with Lord Megatron?"

Despite Knock Out's expectant look, the Autobot scout was silent, so he continued:

"The Megatron _I_ know and serve would _gladly_ help bots of the opposite faction off his ship—either via his fusion cannon or through other creative methods.  I saw him throw a Vehicon grounder off the bridge of the _Nemesis_ once and—well, never mind about that.   I'm sure _this_ Megatron is completely different, even if he _did_ try to punch you through the wall for looking at his medic funny.  Don't you agree?"

More silence.

"And if not, weeell, it will be exciting seeing which one of us gets shot through the head first:  you, for being an Autobot, or me, for not living up to the Deceptibot ideal."

"Stop.  You've made your point."  Bumblebee frowned, remembering the golden claws closing around his throat. "But where are we supposed to find a second ground bridge?"

Knock Out tapped his chin, deliberating.  "We won't find one," he said finally.  "We'll build one."

"What?"

"We'll scavenge around and build a second unit."

"Knock Out, neither of us knows a thing about bridging technology!  As you just proved!"

"So we'll learn.  How hard could it be?"

"Really fragging hard!"  

"What else can we do?  Rush over and ask the psychotic Autocons if we can pretty please use their ground bridge?  Say," he added with a sly smile, "where exactly _is_ that Autobot base?"

"Don't.  Just don't."  Building their own ground bridge.  Well, it was worth a try.  "I guess we should start by getting all the info tracts we can."

Knock Out stood up.  "All right, let's go."

"Let's go where?"

"Let's go do that thing that you just suggested we do," Knock Out said with exaggerated patience.  "Namely, raiding the Library."

"I don't have engineering clearance yet."

"Not a problem."  Knock Out grinned as he flashed the Phase Shifter. "I've got our clearance right here."

* * *

"What good is a Phase Shifter if it won't go through _force fields?"_ Knock Out fumed a short time later.  He slammed his hand into the invisible barrier between him and the shelves of datapads once more. "Worthless piece of junk!"

"I'll take it off your hands."

"Not _that_ worthless," he said hastily, pulling the relic to his chestplates. 

"Well, this has been a bust," Bumblebee sighed.  He was still eyeing the Iacon relic in his peripheral vision, though.  If only Knock Out would let his guard down for a moment, or take it off.  "Hey, want to spar?"

Knock Out turned and stared at him.  "Do I want to _spar?_   Where did _that_ non sequitur come from?"

"Well, the arena's not far from here, is it?"

"Nnnno . . ."  The red mech was still eyeing him suspiciously.

"And you still want to punch me in the face, right?"

Knock Out's expression brightened.  "Over and over, Autobot.  Over and over."

* * *

Smokescreen sat in his room, body hunched and head drooped forward.  He had known.  He had known Prime would notice the relic was missing sooner or later.

He'd said no, of course he'd said no, but the Prime was so fragging hard to lie to. Smokescreen had lost his head and babbled about Knockdown and Yellowjacket.

And of course Optimus hadn't believed him. He'd done that thing.  That Optimus thing.  "I'm very disappointed in you, Smokescreen," and that let down look in his eyes.

The rookie wrapped his arms around his chassis tighter, hiding the dents from Ultra Magnus' fists. 

It was always a bad idea to disappoint Optimus Prime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The talented and amazing [GreyLiliy](http://liliy.deviantart.com/) has drawn Knockdown, Trauma, and Jumpstart & Ampule! AMAZING. I am especially grateful to her for drawing Trauma because I gave her a ridiculously vague description and she somehow read my mind and made him perfect.
> 
> Is he not adorable? Trauma~~~!
> 
>  
> 
>  


	24. Staves and Shots

I'm a shooting star leaping through the skies  
Like a tiger, defying the laws of gravity;  
I'm a racing car passing by like Lady Godiva!  
I'm gonna go, go, go, there's no stopping me!

\- "Don't Stop Me Now", Queen

* * *

As Bumblebee had anticipated, the Phase Shifter was too large to fit in any of Knock Out's arm compartments.

The scout kept his optics wide and innocent as he wandered over the weapons rack that took up most of the wall.  "You ready?"

"In a minute, in a _minute,"_ Knock Out snapped, turning the relic this way and that as he tried to force it in diagonally. 

"Just set it down somewhere.  It'll be safe."  It would be especially safe once Bumblebee grabbed it.  If Knock Out would only set it down, just for a second.  "You're going to break it if you keep that up," he added with some genuine concern.

"No, I won't."  He glared at his arm for a moment before flipping the compartment shut with a shrug.  "Let's just go back."

"Oh, come on!  I've been cooped up for _days._   Do you know what that's like?"

"Since I've been cooped up too—yes, I do.  But I'm not leaving our biggest asset lying out in the open."

"But there's no one here but us."

"Exactly," Knock Out said with a nasty look in the Autobot's direction.

"Wow, are all 'Cons this paranoid?  We're on the same side now."  _Sort of._   "I'm not going to take it."  _Until you put it down._   "Look, we can even do some staff fighting.  That's your weapon, right?  The staff?"

Knock Out's optics locked on the metal training staff Bumblebee was waggling in his hand.  He looked tempted.

 _Just as planned,_ Bumblebee thought, smirking under his mouth-guard as the 'Con reached for the weapon.  _Just as planned._

* * *

The floor of the arena was covered with a thin layer of rubber chips, meant to soften falls and prevent injuries.  Every time Bumblebee was tripped, kicked, or slammed to the ground, he had a new opportunity to get acquainted with it. He told himself that it would all be worth it when he got the Phase Shifter, and in the meantime he was gathering valuable intel.

Intel on how fragging fast Knock Out was.  Intel on his tendency to spin behind his foes, then slam his staff into their backs.  Intel on how hard it was to land a hit on the shiny red mech because he always skipped backwards or dropped into vehicle mode at the last second.  Intel on just how many ways his own staff could be shunted aside or knocked out of his hands, and just how many ways Knock Out's staff could connect with his head or his limbs.  

At the present moment, Bumblebee's face was once again buried in the rubber chips as he gathered intel not only on how much the Decepticon enjoyed having an opponent under his heel, but _also_ on how much it amused him to bounce that heel up and down.

Since a good deal of Knock Out's foot, like the floor, was made of rubber, it didn't hurt much.  But it did give Bumblebee's chirps and warbles a certain _vibrato_ quality, to Knock Out's obvious delight.

"Kn-n-nock Ou-t-t-t—"

"You sound just like a malfunctioning motor!" Knock Out chortled.  "Do you yield, Autobug?"

"Y-y-y-"

"What did you say?"

"Y-yes, I yie-yie-yie-"

"Sorry, didn't quite catch that."

Bumblebee reached back, trying to grab the medic's foot.  "I yield!" he managed to blare.

Knock Out drew his foot back, then slid it forward to flip the scout over onto his back.   "Okay.  New round."  He jogged casually to the other side of the arena.

Bumblebee suppressed a groan as he heaved himself to his pedes.  He supposed he should be thankful that Knock Out actually gave him a little recovery time between each humiliating defeat, but he suspected that was less about fair play and more about making sure he had an audience.

"Fragging Decepticon," Bumblebee muttered, picking his staff up off the ground.  The Phase Shifter, he reminded himself, glancing towards its hiding place under the front row bleachers.  It was all for the Phase Shifter.  Knock Out was still too close to it now, but as soon as Bumblebee saw an opportunity . . .

"Tick tock, Autobot," Knock Out called, one hand on his hip, the other idly spinning his staff.  Thank Primus he was using one of the arena weapons, not his own electrified version.  "Or are you ready to give up?"

"Not likely!"  

Bumblebee drew himself up and placed a hand over his chest.  Across the arena, Knock Out did the same.  This, the Decepticon had told him, was basic sparring etiquette "practiced by anyone who isn't a complete and utter boor." The two opponents bowed—jerkily in Bumblebee's case, because he didn't dare take his eyes off Knock Out.

And now it started. The Decepticon broke into a run, fast and leaning low to the ground.  His silver staff  caught the light as he threw it like a javelin, dropping into vehicle mode the instant it left his hand.  His engine growled as he tore across the arena, throwing up a shower of black chips behind him.

Bumblebee barely had time to take a step back before Knock Out reached him, shifting back to robot mode and pouring all his forward momentum into a powerful leap.  He caught the staff in mid-air, and the fact that Bumblebee had started to run did not prevent  the Decepticon from slamming feet-first into his back.

The blow knocked Bumblebee off his feet and he once again made an acquaintance with his old friends, the rubber chips.  His staff rolled out of reach and it didn't seem worth trying to reach it, not with Knock Out's foot planted firmly on his back.  He could have tried to roll and dislodge Knock Out, but it seemed easier just to lay there, aching and resentful.

The resentment did not fade as Knock Out bounced his staff off the side of Bumblebee's helm.  "Ready to yield?"  This too was part of the etiquette.  Not giving your opponent a chance to yield?  Boorish.  Slamming your opponent into the ground and otherwise causing injury and pain?  Not boorish.

"I yield," Bumblebee said quickly, before Knock Out could get bored and creative.

The Decepticon sighed as he stepped back.  "You're not much of a challenge. I like to win, but this is a little bit sad.  Didn't the Autobot's teach you _anything?"_

Glaring, Bumblebee got up.  The Autobots had taught him plenty, and he'd taught himself the rest.  They just hadn't taught him anything about fighting with sticks or how to counter mechs who could make ungodly open-air leaps.  As for his own staff, it was a downright hindrance as far as he was concerned.

"You wouldn't be so cocky if we were fighting for real," he snapped.  "Or have you forgotten a certain incident with a New York train?  You want to do this?  Fine, I'll use my blasters."

Knock Out's optics narrowed at the mention of the train. 

"No, you won't," he said.  "First, because this —" He walked over to Bumblebee's staff and slammed his foot onto the end of it, causing it to spring into his hand with a seesaw effect.  "—was _your_ weapon of choice, not mine.  Why did you choose it if you didn't know how to use it?  Trying to impress me, hmm?  Mission not accomplished."

Mission.  The Phase Shifter.  "Whatever. I'm done." Bumblebee started drifting towards the exit, which also brought him close to the relic's hiding place under the bleachers.

"Second," Knock Out said as he followed him, just as though Bumblebee hadn't spoken, "I am not about to let you shoot at me.  You can pull your punches with a staff, but you can't with a gun."

"Maybe that's true for ones that use bullets or acid pellets, but my cannon's a blaster.  You can lower the settings to 'training mode.'  Then it just stings a little."  He kept a close eye on the Phase Shifter, angling his trajectory so he was between it and Knock Out.

"Pardon me if I don't trust an Autobot who says his weapon is set on 'low'.  Besides, then we'd have to work out a scoring system and—HEY!"  The Decepticon gave a snarl as Bumblebee broke into a dead run.

"Finders keepers, Decepticreep!" Bumblebee warbled, grabbing the Phase Shifter and slapping the device onto his wrist.  He barely activated it in time to keep the claws whipping towards him from slashing his chassis.

"Lowlife Autobot _cheat!"_ Knock Out took another futile swipe at him.  "I should've known; no one fights THAT badly."

"I'll take you on any day of the week, 'Con!  With real weapons!" he amended hastily as Knock Out rattled the two staves in his hand.  "Blasters!"

"Fine." Knock Out had a nasty gleam in his eye. "Each of us with a blaster, no hold bars, and the winner gets the Phase Shifter."

No holds bars. Oh, that wasn't ominous at all.  Bumblebee could just picture the Decepticon turning the power up to full and blowing his leg off.  He should ignore the red mech and leave, take the Phase Shifter and hide it somewhere.  Except . . . except he was going to have to work with Knock Out if he ever wanted to get home.  And right now Knock Out was thoroughly torqued off.

"If we fight and I win, will you let me keep the relic?  No sneak attacks or stealing it back?"

"As though _I_ was the one doing those things.  Look in a mirror!" Knock Out said.  After a moment he snorted.  "But yes, I _suppose."_

"Fine.  We'll do some target shooting.  There's a shooting range behind the arena, Skyquake showed it to me."

"Target shooting," Knock Out repeated flatly, unenthused.  "Except I don't carry a gun."

"They have ones you can use."  The Decepticon continued glaring at him without comment.  "Or I could just keep the Phase Shifter without giving you a chance to win it back," Bumblebee suggested.

" . . . fine.  Let's do this."

* * *

It had been a long shot, the chance that he could get the Phase Shifter back from the treacherous, underhanded _sneak_ of an Autobot, but Knock Out had been willing to gamble.

Now, seven shots into the contest, he was beginning to regret his decision.  He had acted on the assumption that even if he lost, he would lose nothing.  He had forgotten about his pride.

His optics narrowed as Bumblebee lifted his blaster, focusing on the holopaper target on the other side of the room.  The gun loosed a bolt of laserfire that hit the small central ring of the target, joining the tight cluster of scorch marks there.

Bumblebee paused to admire his work before turning towards Knock Out.  The Decepticon lifted his blaster, focused on his own target.

A faint, muffled warble came from his left.  The Autobot was trying not to laugh.  Possibly he was trying to be polite.  Possibly he felt it was unwise to anger a Decepticon with a gun clenched in his fist. 

Possibly he was making those little noises _on purpose_ to throw Knock Out off his game. 

Yes.  That was probably it.

Gritting his dental plates, the medic pointedly ignored the horrible little slagger.  Little round scorch marks were spattered unevenly across the target in front of him, forming haphazard constellations, but he could still win this contest.  He _would_ win this contest!  He just needed every single one of his remaining shots to hit the bull's-eye (and maybe to jog the Autobot's elbow when it was his turn).

Knock Out drew a deep ventilation of air, letting it cool his systems. His hands, skilled hands, steady hands, _medic's_ hands, raised the blaster as he lined up the target in his sights.  There.  Beautiful.  And now the gentlest pressure on the trigger grip, just until the telltale click . . .

The green bolt of blaster fire sizzled out of the barrel, roiling through empty air until it impacted against the target with a soft _pffft_ , scorching a neat circle through the dead center of the bull's-eye . . .

. . . of the target just to the right of the one he'd been aiming at.

Bumblebee lost it, doubling over as he warbled with laughter, interrupted only by tiny chokes of static when the mirth became too much.

"Ah ha ha ha, oh Primus, it's so good!  It's so perfect!" he gasped as Knock Out's stony glare was redirected from the target to the scout.  "It's so good it hurts!"

Knock Out flung the blaster at him.  The solid _clonk!_  as it bounced off the scout's helm was evidence that no matter how lackluster he was when it came to sharpshooting, there was nothing wrong with his overhand throw.

"Did _that_ hurt, Autobug?  I sincerely hope so!"

If it had, Bumblebee clearly didn't care.  He was still laughing, though the laughter was now interspersed with hiccups. 

"You are the worst shot!  Literally the worst!"

"I am not the worst shot," he hissed.  "I knew plenty of bots with worse aim!"  He knew three.  One was missing a thumb, one was missing an arm, and the third was named Misfire.  But so what?  Three.  Three was plenty.  "Anyway, it wasn't my fault; I got a lousy gun!"

"But Knock Out," Bumblebee said, calming down a little, "we switched halfway through." 

"Shut it, Autobot!" Knock Out stalked out.  Bumblebee returned the two guns to the gun rack before following.

"I just want to know how?" the black and yellow bot persisted.  "How can you be that bad?  Do you have faulty optics or something? How are you still _alive?_ "

Knock Out whirled, whipping his staff out and letting electricity crackle along the prongs.  The yellow bot tensed, half-crouching and ready to leap away.

"I am still alive," Knock Out said as the blue sizzles of light flickered across what _technically_ could be considered a smile, "because I am very good at what I do.  And unless you want a _personal demonstration_ of how very good I am, I would suggest that you find the off switch on your fragged up little vocalizer and show some respect."

He spun around and stalked out, his staff thumping the ground with each step.  He could hear the Autobot's footsteps behind him, trailing cautiously.

"What I don't understand," Bumblebee said when they reached the corridor, and his tone was wary now, "is why you would train so much with the staff—which you're really good with, I'll admit—when you hate getting scratched up."

"I have my reasons." 

Guns were unnuanced, crass weapons when compared to the staff.  Any fool could use one, if they were close enough, and the technique was never any more complicated than "point, then pull trigger."  The staff was beautiful, elegant, and demanded skill. He had complete control over it;  he could land a killing blow or dole out a love tap, it was all up to him.  All right, maybe he'd initially started training with it because it was flashy and could attract potential berthmates, but he'd truly come to appreciate the weapon over the millennia. Besides, how long would he actually have been able to keep possession of a blaster? He was small for a 'Con and there were plenty of opportunists in their ranks; one of the glorious things about his staff was that it was a completely subpar weapon to any bot _except_ one who'd aggressively trained with it.

Not that others had the same enlightened point of view. His superior officers had certainly harangued him on this subject ("You're going to use a gun like every other self-respecting 'Con, got it, Wheels?"), but he'd managed to avoid most "mandatory" training sessions with a little creative thinking and a few bribes. He was not about to turn up for shooting practice and be shown up in front of everyone when he could concentrate on training with the staff and earn the admiration of the masses. As for all the dire predictions from the higher-ups that he'd end up as "a pile of scrap metal and spare parts, you preening little slagger", well, he was still alive, now wasn't he? 

Besides which . . . ha.

"You're smiling," Bumblebee said, brow furrowing.

"Am I not allowed to smile?"

"Of course you are.  I just thought you wouldn't be in the mood to, just now."

"I was thinking of something funny."  He waited for Bumblebee to ask, but the Autobot just eyed him silently.

"I know a place," Bumblebee burst out after a few minutes.  When Knock Out stopped to stare at him, he hastily said, "A place where we can build and store stuff, where no one will find it."

"Okay . . ."  Knock Out looked at him suspiciously.  "Not in your room."

"Of course not in my room, that would be way too obvious.  I'll show it to you."

Knock Out gave a half-shrug, collapsed his staff, and followed.  Why not?  

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting when Bumblebee opened the door, but it sure as scrap wasn't a room filled with Human furniture, knickknacks, and posters.  A small television was perched on a desk in one corner, and a stand full of furled fabric things sat near the door.  Knock Out picked one up and discovered it was an umbrella.

"What is all this?" the red mech asked, fiddling with the umbrella but gesturing to the room at large. 

"It's Dreadwing's old room.  He liked Humans too!  Can you believe it?"  Bumblebee's doorwings perked up.  "Anyway, no one comes here.  Skyquake doesn't want to and everyone else avoids it out of respect for him.  It was actually really dusty until I cleaned everything up . . ."

Knock Out tried to picture Dreadwing, stoic, explosive-loving Dreadwing, hoarding Human junk.  The mind boggled.  "How'd you find it?"

"Skyquake gave me the whole room and everything in it.  So you see, something good came out of telling him that I knew Humans—"

"Don't start."  Knock Out moved further into the room, poking around.  "Yes, it has possibilities . . ."

"What were you thinking of that was so funny?" Bumblebee asked after a few minutes.

"Oh, that."  Knock Out straightened, returning the umbrella to its stand.  "When I was a field medic, I sometimes got sent into battles.  _Real_ battles.  And I can tell you . . ."  With a smirk, he pulled his staff out and tapped Bumblebee's arm, where his cannon was hidden.  "They'll shoot at the bot with the gun over the bot with the stick every time."

As Bumblebee stared at him, he continued, moving on to more immediate and pressing concerns. "Now tell me, does that television work?"

* * *

"Hey kiddo!" Bulkhead said, looking up from monitor duty.  "I was wondering where ya were."  His red optics ran over the dents in Smokescreen's frame.  "Man, look at you.  You really ought to let Doc Ratchet fix you up."

"Maybe later."  No fragging way was Smokescreen letting Mad Doc Ratchet get near him.  Sometimes the cure really was worse than the disease.  "Hey Bulkhead . . . what do you know about Yellowjacket?"


	25. Unsung

I never asked to be an unsung hero.  
I never wanted to be a part of history.  
I never asked to have my life turned into chaos.  
I never wanted this to happen to me.

\- "Unsung Hero", Area 7

* * *

Bumblebee had known in advance that Spool was a Citizen, but somehow he expected the Head of Engineering to look different.  To be taller or heftier or _something._   But no, he had the slim, barely armored chassis of the standard Citizen flyer.  The only thing that set him apart were the wide bands of black paint running up his arms—painted in cheap craft paint—and a smell of turpentine.

"So here's our HQ," Spool said, waving an arm at the massive room they were standing in.  The wide tables were covered with half-finished projects and the concrete floor was smudged with grease, dirt, and paint.  Much like the engineers were.  Including Spool.  "But our work takes us all over the ship.  We've been doing a lot of fixes to the plumbing lately."

"The plumbing?"  That sounded so mundane.  Bumblebee thought engineers built ships and things.  "Um, I'd really like to learn about ground bridges, actually."

"Would you, now?" Spool rubbed his chin thoughtfully.  "You sure about that?  Very complicated subject and . . . I'll be frank with you . . . Soundwave is the only one with in depth knowledge of 'em, and he's not in a fit state to teach.  I mean, if you just want to learn how to operate one, that's one thing, but if you want to understand how they work—"

"Yes, how they work, that's exactly what I want!  Please, there must be someone . . ."

"Weeell."  More chin-rubbing.  "I know a thing or two about them . . . and there might be some course-sets in the Library.  The kind where you study on your own and take a test each week, you know?  I could start you off with those.  And the rest of the time you'll work with the crew to keep the ship up and running."

"Okay.  Sure."

"I'll get the datapads for you.  Meantime, let me introduce you to the bots you'll be working with."  Spool led him over to a table where four Citizens—three grounders and one aerial—were arguing over a set of plans.  To Bumblebee's embarrassment, they fell silent and studied him as he walked up.

"Crew, this is Bumblebee," Spool said cheerfully, slapping the yellow mech on the shoulder.  "You all know where he came from and why he looks like he does, so I won't repeat it.  He's never done this kind of work before, so I want you to all be patient with him.  From now on he's part of the day crew."

"Hello," Bumblebee beeped.  The others murmured a greeting back.

"So, who's who.  That's Lever, Pulley, Boost, and the jet at the end is Backfire. Now I know what you're thinking, Bumblebee," Spool continued. "How do I tell all these Citizens apart? Well, kiddo, you gotta look for tells. Don't be shy about it, everyone does."

"Tells?"

"Yeah. I've got these." Spool tapped the wide bands of black painted up and down his arms. "Pulley's got those tassel things tied 'round her shoulder pauldrons. Boost painted his knee-spikes that ugly green. Lever's got those swirly etchings on her arms. Backfire's got . . . Hey Backfire, what do you got?"

"Oh, uh. Nothing yet. I just got repainted. But I'm gonna trade this guy for some butterfly stickers."

"Stickers are very popular," Spool told Bumblebee, before turning to Backfire. "But I'd go with paint if I were you. Stickers get scraped off to easily in our line of work. Anyway, I'll leave you bots to get acquainted while I grab those datapads I was talking about."

"Sure."  Bumblebee watched Spool go.  After a moment's hesitation, he sat down at the table with the four remaining Citizens.

"So!" Backfire said, then immediately lapsed into awkward silence.

Bumblebee cleared his vocalizer. "Nice to meet all of you."

"Same," said Pulley.

"So . . ." Bumblebee turned towards the jet. "Your name . . . Backfire . . . Isn't that—"

 _"Yes,_ it's a disease," Backfire grumbled while the others snickered and elbowed each other.

"Uh, what?  No!"  Bumblebee's face heated in embarrassment.  "I was going to say, isn't that more of a car name?"

"Oh!"  The jet's blue visor flickered in surprise.  "Uh, yes, it is.  It took me a while for me to figure out that they put me in the wrong body and by that time I was kind of attached to the name."

"The wrong body, right," Pulley snorted.  "This guy just wanted to move up in the world.  Sick of being a groundpounder like the rest of us, right?"

"That's not true," Backfire protested.

"Yeah, he wanted to move up the ladder.  Way up," Lever chuckled.  "Up to the sky!"

"Aw, c'mon you guys."  Backfire punched Lever's shoulder.  "You know it wasn't like that."

Bumblebee's eyes had cycled wide, partly at the borderline rude term "groundpounder", partly out of confusion.

"The wrong body?" he said. 

"They put him in a grounder frame," Pulley explained.  "When he's actually an aerial."

"Yeah.  It's kind of stupid it took me so long to figure it out.  I thought it was just part of being in an unfamiliar frame.   I didn't make the connection until right before we left Cybertron—actually I fell off a building and the fall felt _good_ , like flying.  So then I knew.  You'd think they'd be ticked off about doing a chassis change with resources so low, right?  But Doc Knock and Brakeline were really nice about it.  Brakeline told me the spark always knows—"

"You have sparks?"  Oh Primus, Bumblebee hadn't meant to blurt that out _but he had,_ and now all four of them were sitting stockstill, staring at him—

"Yes," Backfire said finally, his voice very quiet.  "We have sparks."  He pulled the blueprints towards him, leaning over them.

"Scrap, I'm sorry!  I'm really, really sorry, I shouldn't have said that.  I don't know much about you people and I just assumed—"

"Well, the first thing you can stop assuming is that we're 'you people'," Pulley said, her visor narrowed to a thin, blue slit of light.  "We didn't start out like this, you know.  It was _you people_ the Autobots who made us what we are today!"

"The . . . Autobots gave you those bodies?"

"'Course not," Boost said.  "Scrap, mech.  Didn't the 'Bots teach you nothin'?" He seemed almost impressed by the scout's ignorance.  "We were prisoners, right? Some of us were protestin', some of us stole energon—"

"I was a tour guide," Lever put in.

 _"What?"_ Pulley said.  "You never told us that before."

"Yeah, my job was to take tourists around these ancient ruins, but then the Autobots decided something about it was blasphemous or unholy or something."

Bumblebee's optics cycled even wider. "They put you on trial for _that?"_

"We didn't get trials." Pulley said drily.  "We didn't deserve them because we 'weren't real Cybertronians', just 'traitorous rabble.'  That's what we got for being protestors."

"Or tour guides!"

" . . . right."

"The point is, they locked us up.  Tiny little cells."  Backfire shivered.

"For ages," Pulley said.  "They didn't torture us or experiment on us or anything.  They just forgot about us, which I think was worse.  Like nothing about us _mattered._   Some days a guard would come by with energon, but that was it."

"Senator Shockwave was fightin' to free us," Boost said.  "Not that we knew it at the time.  But yeah, that mech was the only Senator worth a drop of energon.  An' when he couldn't get anywhere with the Senate—"

"Then it was Decepticons to the rescue!  Oh yeeeah!" Lever pumped a fist in the air.

"Shockwave defected to the Decepticons," Pulley confirmed.  "And Commander Starscream herself led the assault on the prison.  But most of us had been in there so long, with so little energon, that our frames had decayed to almost nothing.  So Starscream bribed a factory owner—"

"The Decepticons had lots of manufacturing ties, of course," Backfire broke in.

"Yeah.  Anyway, she bribed this guy to cold-construct a run of basic frames.  Two models, one for aerials and one for grounders."  Pulley looked down at her orange and white chassis, tapping her chest with a claw.  "These bodies are flimsy, but you'll never hear me complain."

"Until she activates her vocalizer," Lever said in a mock whisper.  The others laughed.

Bumblebee didn't.  "I'm really sorry about what I said.  I . . . I didn't know."

"Well . . . you're only a youngling really, right?  And raised by Autobots.  No hard feelings," Backfire said, his wings lifting as he shrugged.

"Thank you.  But, um.  Why did they put you in a grounder frame at first?"

"My wings were gone," Backfire said, so matter-of-factly that Bumblebee cringed.  "They didn't know."

"But why couldn't you tell them?"

It was Boost who answered.  "The processor is made of metal, just like the rest of the frame, kid.  Starve it long enough and it starts to crumble."

"Most of us don't remember much—from before.  Just bits and pieces," Pulley said.  "But what can you do, right?  Just pick a new name and keep on living."

"I'm sorry," Bumblebee said helplessly.  The trails of the black and purple corpses he'd left behind . . . Oh Primus, oh Primus . . .  "I'm sorry." 

* * *

Bulkhead was a terrible liar.  He was lucky Arcee and Cliffjumper were the only other bots in the room when he said, a little too loudly, "Why, sure, Smokescreen, I'd love to track down some 'Cons."

The two mercenaries barely glanced up from their dice game.  They just didn't care.  Maybe they felt it was safer not to know what the other two were up to.

As for Smokescreen, he was curious.  In all the months he'd been on Earth, no one had really brought up Yellowjacket or what had happened to him, and now Bulkhead wouldn't even talk about him in public?  Why not?  Was the subject taboo?  Bulkhead _usually_ did exactly what Prime wanted, but sometimes he'd drop a hint or two on subjects that were technically forbidden.

"Sure, let's go," Smokescreen said.  "I could use some fresh air."

He was a little surprised when the coordinates Bulkhead entered into the ground bridge set them down near a known Decepticon energon mine.  Apparently the big bruiser had been serious about 'Con hunting.

"Ah man, look at that," Bulkhead complained, peering down at the mine from the ridge they were standing on.  "I knew we shoulda done this sooner;  the mine's practically played out."

"How can you tell?"  It looked active to Smokescreen;  the orange and white Citizens (inaccurate name, since Prime had officially stripped all Decepticons of Cybertronian citizenship) were hauling out cart loads of energon.

"The stuff they're mining is a darker blue than normal and kinda dusky, see?  That's not good quality energon, Smokey, that's the dregs.  They ain't gonna have a full crew here if they have any sense."

"Since when do Decepticons have sense?"

"Yeah, well . . . still."  The tan-shaded bot carefully looked over the scene below.  "Looks like mostly air frames, too.  Scrap.  They're gonna be out of there the minute we fire."

"Not the way I shoot," Smokescreen said confidently, transforming his arm into a blaster.

"Not those ones and not yet," Bulkhead warned.  "I'll go down there and rout 'em out of the mine;  you shoot 'em down as they come out.  And remember, Doc Ratchet needs them _alive."_

"I know that."  Did _everyone_ have to treat him like a youngling?  He was well-aware that the dumb orange bots couldn't be turned into even dumber Vehicons if they were dead.  "I thought you brought me out here to talk about Yellowjacket, not to shoot 'Cons."

"Thought you liked shooting."

"Eh, it's okay."  Frag yes, he liked shooting.  He was a better shot than Prime, he was sure of it.  Because he practiced, instead of putting his faith in the "power of Primus" or whatever.  "But I want to know about this weirdo Autobot too."

"That's not a very nice way to talk about a dead teammate," Bulkhead said, sitting down on a boulder. 

"Wasn't my teammate."

"Well, no."  The camouflaged bot paused, then said, "Guess there's no reason _not_ to tell ya.  Yellowjacket was this little guy . . . Black and yellow bot.  Used to be all black with yellow detailing, but he decided to change his look after a while.  Anyway . . . he was young.  Real young.  Maybe even younger than you."

"I am _not_ young, you rusted out bucket of bolts!" Smokescreen glowered.

Bulkhead just rolled his red optics.  "Give it a rest.  I'm just sayin'—he was young.  _Really_ young when Prime found him.  He was a Neutral—"

"Oh please," Smokescreen interrupted again.  "Like Prime would give a Neutral anything but a blast through the brain pan."

"Hey, that's our leader you're talkin' about."  Somehow Bulkhead looked a lot more menacing when he was glaring back.  "Chosen by Primus!  Shut your mouth before I do it for you."

Smokescreen gave a huff and crossed his arms.  His dents from Ultra Magnus' beating still ached.  He knew Bulkhead wouldn't have done a thing to stop it, if he'd been there.  He knew he'd have joined in, if Prime had told him to.   " . . . sorry."

"All right.  Where was I?  Geez Smokey, I like you and all, but you've got to learn some limits."

"You were saying Yellowjacket was a Neutral."

"Oh yeah.  More like he was too young to pick a faction, but yeah.  I mean, this was a kid who had barely picked his alt mode.  He wandered onto the battlefield—this was near Praxus—and didn't know what the frag was going on and just panicked.  Started running, not knowing where he was going, and got peppered with laserfire, hit by shrapnel—really beat up.  But Primus gave him a strong spark, and he kept running. Prime and Megatron were fighting, hand-to-hand, and the little shrimp practically bowled right into them.  Megatron sorta backhanded him away.  That's how his vocalizer got crushed.  Couldn't talk right after that, just made sounds."

Smokescreen had to admit that a fight between Optimus Prime and Megatron sounded like something worth watching.  Megatron was impressive—for a lousy Decepticon.  "So then what?  Yellowjacket shot Megatron in the back?  Clearly he didn't do a very good job."

"Are you kiddin'?  Little guy like that gets hit by Megatron, what do you think happens? He was knocked unconscious.  Bleeding everywhere.  But the distraction did let Optimus get some really good hits in on Megatron. After the battle Optimus had Ratchet repair Yellowjacket.  Patched up everything but his vocalizer."  Bulkhead sighed.  "He was a good Autobot.  A little quirky.  But he served the Cause for almost all his life."

"So how'd he die?"

The tan Autobot's expression became sad.  "Megatron.  We boarded the _Heretic_ and . . . Bucket-Head got the little guy.  Couldn't even recover his body.  Optimus didn't talk much about it—still doesn't—but he was real torn up.  That's why no one talks about Yellowjacket.  Prime doesn't like to be reminded, y'know?"

"Huh."  This Yellowjacket character didn't sound so special to _him._   What exactly were the highlights of his life?  Avoiding getting snuffed by Megatron in Praxus, just to get snuffed by him on Earth.  Oh, and sucking up to Prime.  Not like Smokescreen, who had trained with the Elite Guard and guarded important bots and artifacts.  "And you're sure he's dead?"

Bulkhead looked at him like he was crazy.  "'Course he's dead.  Cliffjumper and Arcee saw him.  Idiots mercs didn't pick up the body, but yeah, he'd been shot through the spark.  Ya don't come back from that, kiddo."

"I guess," Smokescreen said, thinking of the yellow and black bot he'd seen.  A bot with a broken vocalizer.

"You guess," Bulkhead snorted.  "Then you guessed right.  C'mon, are we gonna get some 'Cons or what?  Ratchet needs more Vehicons."

"All right, all right."  Smokescreen turned his arm into a blaster. Picking his position, he aimed at the entrance to the mine and waited as Bulkhead clambered down the far side of the slope.

The Citizens pushing the carts scattered like birds as Bulkhead charged through their midst in his alt mode, a camouflage patterned SUV.  The bruiser disappeared into the mine and less than a minute later panicked Citizens were pouring out of the entrance.  Or trying to.  Smokescreen smiled as a few carefully aimed shots brought two of them down.  The legs—that's what he was going for.  Harder to hit than the wings, but it also meant the little slaggers couldn't run.

And besides, Smokescreen was just that good.

The more he hit, the easier the genericons were to hit, forced to slow down as they tried to clamber over their fallen comrades, or in a few cases (frag, Decepticons were stupid) help them up.

Bulkhead shoveled them out of his way when he emerged from the mine, lunging to grab the few that were in any condition to try to escape.  Binding their hands and legs, he dropped the prisoners in a pile and waved his arm.  In response to the signal, Smokescreen skidded down the shale slope.

"How many'd we get?" he asked.

"Eight.  Not bad.  C'mon, let's get outta here before the 'Cons send backup."

Smokescreen nodded.  Normally he would have taunted Decepticon prisoners, maybe given them a good kicking, but both he and Bulkhead ignored the cursing and pleading of the struggling bots. 

They weren't worth it.

* * *

Knock Out lounged in Dreadwing's old room, admiring his new claws.  He'd politely but firmly resisted Trauma's suggestion of blunt fingers and Knockdown's opinion that three-jointed fingers were better than two-jointed.  Like scrap they were!  Sure, three-jointed digits were better for gripping, but two-jointed digits were better for precision.  Surely any medic who knew a scalpel from a scraplet knew _that._

He had decided not to bring up his door;  there wasn't a single grounder on the ship (unless you counted the orange Vehicons, and who would?) and he didn't trust the medics to produce something up to his standards.  Instead, he'd taken a bunch of datapads full of medical journals and, with Knockdown's blessing, had gone off to study.  And if the room he'd chosen to study in also happened to contain the replicator, which could create new parts if provided with the right raw materials, weeeell, wasn't that a coincidence!

Not that the door would be an easy replacement;  this was an artisan project, not something that could be slopped out like a mass-produced trinket.  No matter.  Knock Out was still working on the blueprints to feed the machine, but he was going to finish it and he would . . . figure out something to explain how a young clone could use such a complex machine to produce (what would surely be) a work of astounding beauty.

Knock Out was just pondering possible excuses when Bumblebee shuffled in, holding a pile of datapads.

"Oh, there you are!  Engineering tracts, I hope?"

"Yeah.  Ground bridge stuff.  I'll study 'em and then they'll test me."  Bumblebee sounded morose as he set them down with a clatter.

"Well, all for a good cause."

The yellow bot heaved an enormous sigh.  "I guess."

"Look here.  Mission accomplished."  He held up his new fingers and wiggled them.

"Cool."

"Cool?  That's all?  Cool?"

"I'm glad you got your fingers back to normal."  Bumblebee picked up a baseball cap, turning the tiny scrap of fabric around in his hands.  "Hey, Knock Out?" he said after a minute or two. "Do Vehicons have sparks?"

"Of course they do."  When the Autobot didn't say anything, he added, "You didn't know that?"

"Do they talk?  Do they . . . do they _feel?"_

"Yeees . . ." The red mech cocked his head, raising an eyebrow.

"And they have names and things?  Hobbies?"  Bumblebee was looking at him with something like desperation now, leaning forward.

"What's gotten into you?  Vehicons have serial numbers, not names.  I seriously doubt they have enough time for hobbies.  Busy getting slaughtered by Autobots, you know."

"No names?" The scout sounded relieved.

"No.  They _try_ to get them, of course, and some officers look the other way . . . "

"They try?"

Knock Out wished Bumblebee would stop staring at him so . . . bleakly.  It was unnerving.   "Yes, they'll call themselves Grind or Spoke or whatnot—simple designations, usually, they're unimaginative creatures—but technically it's against army regulations.  Names are for . . . well, for _real_ Decepticons."

"Oh."  Bumblebee went quiet again.  "What makes them . . . not real?"

"They just aren't."

"But they have sparks like you, and they talk like you, and they FEEL like you, so how do you know they're any different?" Bumblebee's tone was almost aggressive now, his door-wings hiked up.

"I know because I _know,"_ Knock Out snapped.  "And since I've been dealing with Vehicons since before you were sparked, I suggest you accept me as an authority on this matter."

"You just don't want to admit that you're taking advantage of them like you'd have to if you admitted they were _people!"_

 _"I'm_ taking advantage of them?  _Me?"_   Knock Out shoved to his feet.  "Which one of us patches them up? Which one of us retrieves their corpses?  Which one of us inoculates them from disease? Which one of us _saves_ them?  And which one of us _rips through them like they're tinfoil?"_

Bumblebee flinched.  Knock Out sneered.

"Is _that_ what this is about?  You suddenly feel _guilty?"_

"They have _sparks!"_ Bumblebee shouted.  "I didn't know that!  You . . . you should've told me!"

"Right, sure.  'I know we're about to fight, Bumblebee, but before we do I would like to point out that the drones accompanying me—'"

"Don't call them that.  They don't like it."

"Pardon me, but since when have you ever given a frag about what they liked?  I'm fairly sure they don't like having their heads kicked off or being shot to death either, but that's never stopped you before."

"I didn't _know,"_ he wailed again, wringing his hands.

"Then you're an idiot."  Knock Out sat down again.  He picked up one of the datapads, ostensibly examining it as Bumblebee paced.  "Aren't you going to ask me if Insecticons can talk?" he asked after a minute, just to be cruel. "Because they can."

Bumblebee gave a little sob, and Knock Out relented.

"Look, you're putting far too much thought into this.  Not that I'm thrilled about Team Prime's habit of sending Vehicons to the scrapyard or into my med bay, but that's what they're _made_ for.  They're cannon fodder.  Neither side would get anywhere if we thought of them as anything else."  Bumblebee was giving him that bleak stare again, so he continued.  "It's not like anyone expects them to survive the war.  Even _they_ know it's not likely.  So you're really just doing what's expected of you when you kill them."

"That's what you expect from Autobots?  That's really what you expect?"

Knock Out couldn't understand why he sounded so strained.  "To destroy the enemy?  Yes, that's what I expect, from both sides."

"Yes, okay, but . . . we don't count them as killing people, all right?  We don't even count them, or think about them, or—or anything!  I mean, I killed Skyquake, and I don't regret that because he was attacking me and Optimus, but at the same time . . . I do?  Because he was a Cybertronian, and I think about if things had been different, like if the war hadn't happened . . ."

"Yes, but—"

"I mean, I didn't even think about Vehicons!  Ever!  That's the bad part!  Like they didn't even _count."_

"Bumblebee . . ." Knock Out sighed, pressing his new fingers to his face.  "Sit down." 

The Autobot sank into a chair across from him, fidgeting, his hands in his lap.

"You're getting all worked up over _nothing,"_ Knock Out said.  "Do you think the Vehicons would have stood down if you'd asked them who their favorite author was, or their favorite song?  No.  They're sent out to kill Autobots and they _do_ kill Autobots."  He paused.  "Or at least they try very hard.  Their weapons and armor aren't the best—worries about rebellion and all that—anyway!  My point is . . . even if you'd known they had sparks?  You still would've had to kill them.  So why waste time feeling guilty about it?"

"I don't think it's a waste of time," Bumblebee said quietly, staring at his hands.  "I think it's sort of important."

Autobots were so illogical.  Knock Out cast about for something to soothe the ridiculous scout.  "Well, if it makes you feel better, they have sparks, but not whole ones."

Bumblebee looked up.  "What do you mean?"

"Shockwave cold-constructed the Vehicons in big batches right as all the hotspots were drying up.  Fewer and fewer sparks were being produced, so—innovator that he is—he found a way to fracture one spark into . . . oh, twenty or thirty pieces, I think it was.   So you see," Knock Out said in his kindest tone, "they really _aren't_ like us."

Strangely, judging from his expression, this didn't comfort the scout at all.


	26. Life on Repeat

Oh Lord, I have been told  
That I must take the unforsaken road.  
There's a fork in the road,  
I'll do as I am told,  
And I don't know, don't know  
Who I want to be.

\- "Mowgli's Road", Marina and the Diamonds

* * *

 

Two days later, Bumblebee was walking towards the Engineering level when . . .

"Goood morning, Autobug!"

Yeah.  That. 

"Go away, Knock Out."

"Oh dear, are you still upset?  I can't imagine why.  You asked for information on Vehicons, I _gave_ you information on Vehicons."

"You told me you gave them a 'bounce test' by throwing them off the bridge of your ship."

"Ha ha, I did say that, didn't I?"

"And that instead of berths, 'we just stack them against the wall like cordwood'."

"Is it my fault that you're credulous?"

"And how you're allowed to use them as test subjects if you fill out a simple one-page form."

"Ah, now _that's_ the simple truth."

_"Go away."_

"All right, fine," Knock Out chuckled.  "I'm late for work as it is."

"Hmph.  Why are you so cheerful anyway?"

"Almost done with my door. Won't have to put up with this much longer."  He tapped the white replacement on his arm, his expression smug.

"Took you long enough," Bumblebee said, trying to get under the annoying red mech's plating.  But Knock Out just laughed again.

"You try designing something on a machine where half—but _only_ half—the controls are opposite from what you're used to."

Bumblebee thought of something.  " So you haven't transformed the whole time we've been here?  How are you still sane?  Relatively speaking."

 _"Rude,_ Autobee.  Just because I haven't transformed where people can _gawk_ doesn't mean I haven't transformed at all. I do laps in vehicle mode, most nights."

"You do not, you liar.  The arena's closed while we—Engineering—makes these big, uh . . . climby things."

"Big climby things.  You have _such_ a way with words.  And I didn't say it was in the arena."

"Then where?"

"Whoops, I'm running late, must go.  Have fun with your drones, Bug!"

"They're not _drones!"_ Bumblebee shouted after the red mech as he disappeared around the corner.  "And don't call me BUG!"

* * *

 

Knockdown was putting a set of sterile needles into his medical case when Trauma came in, carrying a large crate.

"Making house calls today?" the lavender jet  asked.

"Tracking down Megatron.  He's late on his vaccination schedule, and if he won't come to us . . ."

Trauma chuckled.  "Get Starscream to help.  She'll drag him in by his audial if she has to."

Knockdown's optics half-closed, giving a little smile at the mental image.  "What about you?  Sorting?"

"Mmhm. "  Trauma set the crate down on the floor.  It was full of spare parts—not from bots, but from machinery destroyed during the _Heretic_ 's crash landing.  "Keeps the Twins out of trouble . . . and someone has to do it.  I'm _hoping_ to convince Knock Out to help, too."

Both medics cast a glance downward, towards the floor.  Knock Out had taken to sequestering himself in a cramped room one level down, despite the fact that half of it was taken up with the replicator salvaged from the original medical bay.  Whenever Knockdown or Trauma checked on him, he was intently studying a medical datapad, but happy enough to set it aside and talk about what he was reading about.  He was a quick study.  Learning fast.  Seemed relaxed.

But he showed no signs of wanting to leave the room.

"I couldn't let him continue mutilating bodies," Knockdown frowned after a little pause.

"Of course you couldn't," Trauma said.  "Honestly, we aren't _Autobots . . ._  What did you ever tell the other Citizens, by the way?"

"I said there was an accident which made the bodies unsalvageable.  A chemical fire in the medbay.  They said they understood.  I smelted the remains.  Followed the proper protocols and all that."

"Oh dear . . . Well, probably for the best.  More pleasant than hearing that your loved ones have been dissected,"  Trauma sighed.  "No, you were right to correct him.  But I wish he'd socialize a little more.  You know, I think he's actually shy beneath that bluster of his.  Sometimes I can barely get him to look at me . . ."

"Hmm.  I'll talk to him on my way out."

* * *

 

Knockdown stopped in front of the modified  storage closet that Knock Out liked to hole himself up in.  He tapped on the door.

He wouldn't _force_ the red grounder to join Trauma's little sorting party, he'd just . . . exert his influence as CMO.

No answer.  He knocked again, then opened the door on the tiny room.  Half of it was taken up by a looming mass of machinery—the replicator.  Then there was a little chair at the end with some datapads stacked under it.

And the chair was empty.  Knock Out was apparently running late.  The cyan Seeker gave the tiniest shake of his head.   Yes, he wanted his staff to be comfortable, but he also expected them to be timely.  Still, it wasn't as though Knock Out had any specific tasks at the moment, besides studying medical datapads and the Decepticon Code.

And even if Knock Out wasn't punctual, at least he was tidy.  That was why the mesh cloth tucked behind the replicator caught the CMO's eye.  Raising an optic ridge, he reached back and drew out a flattish object wrapped in the smoothly  textured silver cloth.

Knockdown pulled the cloth away.  It slid away and pooled on the floor as he stared at the object in his hand.  Cherry red finish.  Silver trim.  A dark-tinted window reflecting his own pale face, expressionless apart from his widened optics.

He turned the door over slowly in his servos, taking in all the little details—the tiny handle, the even smaller control for the windows, the miniature lines of chrome framing the smooth red gloss.  His fingers stroked gently, carefully across a surface so shiny it seemed almost liquid.  The window caught the light, smokey glass interrupted with bars of brilliance, as he tilted it.

When he tilted it back, it reflected two pale white faces.

Knockdown turned.  His clone was in the doorway, one hand gripping the doorframe.  Knock Out's face, too, was expressionless, but his optics kept flitting from Knockdown's faceplate to the door in his hand.

The Seeker shook off his moment of—not exactly guilt, but surprise.  He was the Chief Medical Officer.  He had a right to be in any room attached to the medical bay.

"You made this?" Just a hint of amazement.

Knock Out's optics did that rise-fall sequence again.  He nodded.

"By yourself?"

"Yes."

Knockdown looked down at the door again, then held it out to his clone.  The red grounder swept it up and held it protectively to his chest as though he expected it to be snatched away.

"Why haven't you attached it?  It seems to be done."

"Needs the side view mirror," Knock Out said, his optics wary. 

"All right."  Knockdown sat down in the chair and gestured towards the machine.

Knock Out stared at him for a moment before making his way over to the replicator, tapping the screen to summon the holographic display.  Material type, density, dimensions . . . He typed them in slowly, making the occasional error and, once, giving a frustrated little hiss as he accidentally deleted all his data, forcing him to start over.  The second time his claws moved a little faster.  A final press of the button and the machine hummed quietly for a few minutes before ejecting the first component—the flat, vaguely rectangular mirror.

Knock Out turned it over in his hands, frowned, and dropped it in the trash bin in recycling chute on the machine to be reprocessed.  He turned to the machine and began again.

The third mirror, he kept.

Knockdown watched in silence as Knock Out moved on to the other components he'd need--the side mount, the outer casing, the interior springs and washers, the electronic components that would hook into his circuitry . . . The red grounder consistently made little mistakes, doing things backwards, almost, but he never stopped until he produced something _perfect._

Knock Out's shoulders lost some of their tension as he finished working with the machine and began assembling the mirror and attaching it to the door.  Obviously this line of work was more familiar.

"Here."  Knockdown held out his hand and Knock Out frowned, pulling the door to his chest again.  "It will be impossible," the jet said patiently, "to install on your own."

"Not _impossible,"_ Knock Out objected.  But he carefully set the completed door in Knockdown's servos and squeezed past him to sit in the chair.  Knockdown settled on one knee as he began unscrewing the temporary white paneling.

"You could have come to us about this."

Knock Out shrugged.  "I didn't want to seem ungrateful."

"Knock Out, we want you to be comfortable."  Knockdown frowned as he began to connect the relays to the new door.  "Who taught you how to use the replicator?  Ratchet?"

Knock Out was silent.  "They didn't have one as big as this," he said finally.  "No, Ratchet didn't teach me."

The blue jet looked up at him.  "Then who?"

Knock Out gave him a sad smile.  "No one.  I told you, didn't I, that the Prime ripped my door off once?"

"I see." Knockdown's optic ridges were drawn down as he went back to work.  "So they . . . let you reconstruct it yourself."

 _"Let_ me."  Knock Out chuckled mirthlessly.  "Yes, they _let me_ do it all myself.  But you know . . ."  He sounded thoughtful.  "It wasn't as hard as I expected.  I made a lot of _mistakes,_ of course, but when I fired up the machine, it was like . . . like I was _remembering_ how to do something I'd forgotten a long time ago."

Knockdown's hands stilled for an instant.  "I see."

Knock Out didn't seem to notice.  He was frowning into the distance.  "You learn to do everything by yourself, when you're a . . . an Autobot.  You can't rely on anyone."

"Well."  The blue Seeker set the final relay and stood, dusting off his knees.  "You're a Decepticon now."

"That's right."  Knock Out smiled up at him.   "I am."

* * *

 

"So then Starscream did this _incredible_ roll, I mean she came this close to the canyon wall," Ampule said, holding her fingers an unlikely distance apart.

 "And she came out of the dive and landed right in front of us," Jumpstart said.  "And then she started yelling."  He sighed heavily.  "I still don't know how she knew we'd snuck off the ship."

"Well, I _hope_ you have enough sense not to do it again," Trauma said, flipping a bolt into the appropriate container.  "It's dangerous out there, you know.  The Autobots . . . and then the humans."

"Why would humans hurt us?" Ampule was untangling a mass of thin wires.

"They'd be scared.  Their transports are all lifeless."

"Not in my comics."

"Those are _fiction,"_ the therapist said patiently.  "In real life—"  He stopped as the main doors opened and Knockdown came in, followed by—

"Oh, hey Knock Out!" Ampule exclaimed.

"You got your door fixed? Cool!"

—followed by Knock Out, who was smiling, shining, and whole.  It was startling, really, what a difference that made.  Trauma realized his mouth was hanging open and hastily shut it.

"Knockdown, when did you find time to—?  Knock Out, you look great."

Knock Out smiled, not quite meeting Trauma's eyes.  Wordlessly, showily, he dropped into vehicle mode.  His paneling slid and shifted and clicked into place until a red automobile was sitting there, looking like speed personified.

"He built it himself," Knockdown murmured to Trauma as the Twins crouched down to get a better look at Knock Out's vehicle mode.

"I see.  From, ah . . . from memory?"

"Yes."

"I see . . ."

"We'll talk about it later.  I've got to go see to Megatron.  Keep an eye on him."

Trauma nodded as Knockdown left.  Since Knock Out seemed perfectly happy talking to the Twins, he doubted there'd be any problems.  The red mech was back in robot mode now, stretching his arm to better admire his new door as he answered the flurry of questions from the white jets.

"My alt mode's an Aston Martin, a DB9 to be exact.  Top speed?  Well, the Autobots never let me cut loose, but I would _guess_ somewhere in the range of 200 miles per hour . . . Yes, I know it's slow compared to Mach 2, but it's fast for an automobile . . ."

He made his way over to the table as he spoke, looking at the buckets of various parts and the larger crate of mixed up components.

"Would you like to join us, Knock Out?" Trauma asked.  "We're sorting everything by type."

"It's boring, but kind of fun," Jumpstart said, hopping onto his stool.

"Sure."  Knock Out's began picking through the gears and screws scattered across the table.  Trauma had to admit that he managed just fine with only one finger joint.

"Do you and Bumblebee ever race?  Who's faster?" Ampule asked as she went back to untangling wires.

"Well, we really didn't socialize much before we escaped, but I imagine I'm faster."

"Why?"

"Because I just _am."_

"What kind of car is he?"

"Urbana 500.  Could be worse."

"What was the worst thing about the Autobots?"

 _"Ampule,"_ Trauma said sharply.  The white and purple jet lapsed into silence.  For a few minutes the only sound was the _ting-ting_ of nuts and bolts being sorted into their respective containers.

"So the Autobots made you a grounder because they're all grounders, right?" Ampule said, breaking the silence.  "Does that ever make you angry?  That Knockdown's a jet and you aren't?"

"I really didn't know what he looked like until I got here.  They kept me in the dark about the Decepticons as much as they could.  But no, it doesn't upset me.  I suppose that's hard to understand when you've never been around grounders—"

"Oh, we've been around plenty.  Lots of the Citizens are grounders," Jumpstart assured him.

"Ah—yes."  Knock Out looked taken aback for a second and cast a sideways glance at Trauma.  "Of course they . . . count."

"And we used to work with one, too.  Brakeline."

Knock Out lost his grip on the cog he was holding.  He stared at the table a second before slowly picking it up again.  "Used to."

"Yeah, he was the medical assistant.  Like, not a full medic, but—"

"Hi Knockdown!" Ampule said suddenly, loudly, as the main doors hissed open.  Jumpstart's mouth snapped shut in mid-sentence and all three of the jets leaped up to greet the CMO entering the med bay.  Knock Out, remaining seated, simply looked.

"Knockdown!  Hello!" Trauma said.  "How'd it go with Megatron?"

"It didn't."  The CMO looked annoyed.  "He snuck off for a for a flight.  Ah well.  How are things going here?"

"Fine!" both Twins chirped together.

"Very well," Knock Out said.

"Fantastic," Trauma assured him.

Knockdown eyed them, perhaps feeling they were a little too exuberant.  But all he said was, "Good.  Carry on.  I'll be in my office if you need me."

They watched him go, and the tension didn't sag out of their shoulders until his office door closed.

"We don't talk about Brakeline around him," Ampule whispered to Knock Out.  "It _upsets_ him."

"'Cause they were sparkmates," Jumpstart said.  "Until . . ."  He paused dramatically.

 _"Quiet,_ you two."  Trauma cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the closed door.  He turned back to Knock Out and spoke in a hushed voice.  "Since you'll be working here, I suppose it's inevitable that you'll find out what happened.  Brakeline—"

"No."

Trauma blinked.  "Pardon?"

"No.  I don't need to know.  I don't want to know.  Now or ever."  Knock Out was focused on the nuts and bolts, calmly pushing them into little groups with the tips of his claws.  His voice was light and the curve of his lips suggestive of a smile, but his brows were lowered. "I can already tell that it would only depress me.  And why would I wish that on myself?  So let me live in blissful ignorance, please."  His smile slipped a little as he leaned over his work, and Trauma barely heard him mutter, "I have plenty of problems of my own."

"But don't you want to know—"

"Jumpstart," Trauma said.  "He said he doesn't want to hear about it.  Respect that." 

After a few awkward minutes, Ampule started talking about glaciers, and the conversation shifted to new topics. 

But Knock Out continued leaning over his work, his back tense.  And the therapist wondered . . .

If the clone had recalled some of Knockdown's medical knowledge . . . what _else_ might he remember?


	27. Out of the Gate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. Also I need to think up a title for this chapter.

Aziraphale. The Enemy, of course.  But an enemy for six thousand years now, which made him a sort of friend.

\- Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, _Good Omens_

* * *

 

"Knock Out.  In my office, please."

Well, here it came.  The fallout that came when a supposed rookie exhibited professional skills.  Knock Out sat straight in the chair in front of the desk, trying to project innocent curiosity.  "Yes?"

Knockdown steepled his fingers.  "The replicator."

"Yes?"

"Would you be able to use it again?"

This was so unexpected that Knock Out didn't answer, just kept looking at the Seeker.

"We have a backlog," Knockdown said, "of some of the more commonly used parts.  And since you showed some ability—"

"Oh, I see."  Apparently Knockdown was more pragmatic than Knock Out had given him credit for.  Very Decepticon. Who cares how a problem gets solved, as long as it does.  "I'd be happy to work on that."

"On and off," Knockdown clarified.  "I don't want to shut you up in that claustrophobic room too long.  You can help around the lab the rest of the time."

"Fine by me."

"All right then.  Dismissed." He waited until the red mech was almost at the door before adding, "Oh, and Knock Out."

Knock Out turned and lifted an eyebrow. "Yes, _Herr Doktor?"_

Knockdown leaned forward slightly, his optics fixed on his mirror image.  "You'll tell me if your memory banks provide any other . . . unexpected information, won't you?"

 _We don't talk about Brakeline around him,_ his memory quoted.  _It upsets him._

"Of course," he lied.  "Of course."

* * *

 

Bumblebee didn't know why he was even surprised to find Knock Out stealing a giant mirror out of Dreadwing's room.  The scout just balled his hands on his hips as the Decepticon stood there, caught in the act of dragging a piece of black glass taller than he was.  It looked like it had come from the side of an office building.

Knock Out finally broke the silence. "Would you believe I'm taking it to have it polished?"

"Definitely.  Now ask me if I believe you were going to take it back."

"It was piled behind a bunch of junk.  You couldn't even see it.  Don't you think Dreadwing would want his _objets d'art_ to be appreciated?"

"Don't!"  Bumblebee threw his hands in the air.  "Oh, fine, take it!  I know you'll just help yourself when I'm not looking otherwise!"

"Ah, you're beginning to learn."  Knock Out smirked.

"I got your message, by the way.  Do you always send 'let's meet, we need to talk' comms while helping yourself to someone's belongings?  Because I've got to say, it seems counterproductive."

"Well, you were faster than I thought.  You brought the datapads, yes?"

"Yeah."  Bumblebee held up the space bridge datapads.

"Good.  Wait for me in there."  He indicated Dreadwing's room.  "I won't be a minute.  Of course, this would go faster with the phase shifter . . ."

"Dream on, 'Con."

When Knock Out returned, Bumblebee had already cleared off Dreadwing's cluttered desk (he seemed to have a thing for human board games, and then there was the Cybertronian-sized chess set to deal with) and spread the datapads over the desktop.

"So I looked at those self-tests for the bridge certification thing," Bumblebee told Knock Out as the medic picked up the first datapad in the series, _Intro to Space Bridges: A Journey into the Imagination!_   "It might take a while to do the course.  It looks . . . fairly difficult." 

It looked _impossible._ He couldn't make heads or tails of the information.

Even the first test, the one that was supposed to be review, was filled with quadratic whos-its and parallel whats-its that he'd never heard of.  The Autobots had educated him, sure, but only in the essentials.  Reading, writing, firing a gun . . . When you were sparked during a war, when your entire life consisted of fighting Decepticons, you didn't exactly have time to sit down and learn a little trigonometry on the side.

So Bumblebee was more than a little annoyed when Knock Out scrolled through the first practice test and said, "Well, it _starts out_ basic enough."

"Oh, sure.  It starts out simple."  No fragging way was he admitting his weakness to this 'Con.  "But as you go further on—"

Knock Out nodded as he continued scrolling.  "It's a very technical field. But you don't need to actually earn the certification, after all. We only need enough information to build a basic model—something that will work once or twice so we can get home.  I'll download the coursework onto this."  He tapped the _1,001 Sudoku Puzzles_ datapad.  "Just tell the drones—excuse me, the extremely individualistic _Citizens_ —that it was too hard for you."

"It's not too hard for me," he snapped, then immediately regretted it when Knock Out shot him a shrewd look.  "I'm just . . . more of a bot of action."

 _"Are_ you?  Good, good.  In this case the action will be scrounging around for the necessary parts and material.  _Fortunately_ Knockdown has given me permission to use the replicator. He doesn't need to know that I'm creating more than disposable syringes and energon drip lines."

"Oh—good, I guess.  I don't suppose you could just type in 'space bridge' and it would pop one out?"

"Ha ha.  Cute.  No."

"What are you going to be doing while I get all this stuff?"

"I just told you—making the components.  And supervising."  When Bumblebee glared at him, he rolled his optics dramatically.  _"And_ figuring out the correct formulas so we don't get turned inside out when we go through.  Really, I don't know why you're complaining.  You have the easy part."

Bumblebee huffed because . . . it did seem like Knock Out had taken on more of the work.  He didn't like that.  Didn't like the idea of being in a Decepticon's debt, didn't like the idea of doing less than his share. It made him feel like he was shirking.

"Yeah, like I trust your mathematical skills.  We'll probably end up in a weird shadow world where you can't touch anyone or communicate anyone except by cell phone—"  He broke off he caught Knock Out's confused expression.  Apparently the 'Con had never been informed of the shadowzone incident.  "Or weird things like that!  Ha ha."

"You Autobots," Knock Out said, "are a very strange breed.  At any rate, after we've beaten the glitches out of this space bridge—this came to me last night and it's pure genius—you can bridge over to Autobot base and simply activate their bridge from there.  The two bridges will overlap and, voila, back home."

Now this sounded more like Bumblebee's type of mission!  Except . . . "How do I know you'll wait for me before bridging back?"

"Would I lie?"

"Are you fragging kidding?"

"Language, youngling!"

"I'm not a youngling!"

"By the way, where is that Autobot base?"

"If you think I'm telling _you—"_

"Then how will I bridge you to it?"

Knock Out smiled widely.  Bumblebee just glared.

"We will find a different way," the scout said at last.  "Even if I have to DRIVE to it."

"I will certainly be interested to see how you do that, considering we're in the middle of a lake."

"It's a _bay."_

"Whatever," Knock Out said, pulling over pad of holopaper as he began to take notes.  "The point is we'll be home before you know it."

* * *

 

Every so often, Starscream took the medical team out for flight training. Technically, they were part of Starscream's armada—excluding Knock Out, who was classified as a General Assistant anyway. 

 _Just as Brakeline was.  One certainly hopes things don't end up like_ that _again,_ she thought, tilting her nosecone up as she gained altitude.  _Although I don't see how they_ could.

She turned her attention to the matter at hand—the flight performance of Knockdown, Trauma, and the Twins.  They followed her lead as she banked.  "Wing to wing is as good as spark to spark," as the old Vosian saying went, and while that was not entirely accurate (and a little bit _crass),_ she could certainly see the personalities of her charges reflected in their flight patterns.  

On her right was steady, never flashy Knockdown.  To her left, Trauma, whose reliability was interrupted by occasional moments of inspiration or impulsiveness.  And behind her, the younger jets were once again playing "how close can I get to my wingmate without actually crashing."

 _"Ahem._ Ampule.  Jumpstart."

They guiltily straightened their flight formation.

"Thank you," Starscream said.  "Now remember, be aware of your surrounding at all times, 360 degrees . . ."  The lesson continued.

When Starscream finally led them back to the _Heretic,_ she was wondering if she should set up a separate training schedule for the Twins.  Knockdown and Trauma were steady enough but their maneuvers could certainly be _improved._   Starscream was hardly able to instruct them while she was focused on preventing the younger jets from crashing into snowbanks, however.

The five jets were briefly reflected in the thick ice of the bay before they landed.  The top deck of the ship was still above water, luckily.  (Or, at this time of year, above ice.)

Starscream transformed, black jet trimmed with maroon and gold to a robot mode with the same. 

"Well done, all of you.  Trauma, pay less attention to the scenery and more to the squad.  Ampule and Jumpstart, you _must_ learn to focus.  I've seen many high speed crashes and they are not pretty."  Not to mention the risk of being knocked out of the sky by Autobots, but ideally they would never be put in that situation.  So far they hadn't been allowed near any battle fields.  "Knockdown, I suppose it would be pointless to ask you to practice more."

"I do practice."

"Besides flying with me."

"I'm too—"

"Too busy, _yes,_ I know."  She looked down at him in exasperation. Even Starscream found time for a personal flight _once_ in a while.  Ah well.  Some jets were like that.  "Trauma, wait a moment."

The lavender jet turned to look at her inquisitively and a bit nervously.  "Of course, Commander.  Ah—my flying wasn't _that_ bad today, was it?"

"No, no."  She waved the information away.  "Shockwave _finally_ gave Megatron his information on cloning—which was apparently a hobby of his at one time—to each their own—and I offered to pass it along to you."

"Oh!  Thank you!"  Trauma's face lit up as he accepted the datapad she was offering.  "This will help enormously with their therapy . . . So helpful to know what we're dealing with."

"I quite agree," she said, hands behind her back as she strode into the ship.  It was the exact reason she had copied the files before passing them along.

* * *

 

Smokescreen asked everyone he could think of (except Prime) before going to Ratchet's med bay.  The medic was working on an orange and white genericon strapped to a table.  Reattaching a limb, it looked like.  Even without a standard facial plate, it was clear that the Decepticon hadn't been implanted with Vehicon coding yet.  It was rigid with fear.  Smokescreen could see Ratchet's mouth moving as he leaned down to crimp a wire, but he couldn't tell what the medic was saying.

Like he cared. 

"Hey.  Ratchet."

The medic looked up.  "Smokescreen!  You finally came for that checkup.  Sit over there, I'll be with you in a just a minute."

Smokescreen did sit, but only on the edge of his seat.  There was a time, when he first joined the Autobots, when he thought Ratchet was nice.  Always so cheerful!  Always happy to see you in his med bay!  Yeah, right.  Ratchet was happy to see mechs in his med bay because no one with sense wanted to be there.  Every visit was terrifying.  The weird part was he couldn't figure out what made Ratchet so freaky.   The med bay was clean and neat and he didn't go after Autobots with rusty needles or anything.  But there was just something about Ratchet that left him unnerved.  He did things that didn't quite make sense.

That Decepticon strapped to the table, for example.  Why fix it up when it was quaking like that?  Wouldn't it be easier to wipe out its mind and _then_ fix its frame?  That's what Smokescreen thought, anyway.

"I actually wanted to ask you something," Smokescreen said.

"In a minute, in a minute." The cyan and white medic waved away the question, but Smokescreen wasn't fooled.  Ratchet was just stalling so he could trap him into staying for an exam.

"Okay, but it's a really simple question.  About rust infections," the rookie invented.  "How you get them and stuff."

"Smokescreen, I will indulge your curiosity as _soon_ as I'm done with our friend here."  He dropped a servo onto the Decepticon's helm, and his "friend" whimpered in fear.

"Sure, Doc, whatever." Smokescreen watched silently for a minute before casually saying, "Guess we got pretty many of these guys.  Gonna do a raid soon, huh?"

"In a few weeks, yes."

Information acquired.  And why?  Because he was awesome, that was why.  He had a cool head under pressure.  _So_ much better than Prime.  If the Autobots would only listen to _him,_ things would get done.

"Instead of sending the Vehicons in to scout the ship, we should just pack 'em full of explosives and get 'em to blow up an outer wall."  See, that was an example.  A great idea.  "Kablooie!  The place would flood and no more Decepticons."

Ratchet rolled his optics. "Smokescreen, the amount of explosives you'd need to break through the hull of that ship—"

"Uh, hello, it's _got_ a hole in it.  A big gaping hole."

"From the engine exploding, yes.  We don't have that kind of payload lying around.  Anyway, that's not the point.  Yes, they're easy targets.  Yes, we'll kill them eventually.  But in the meantime . . ."  He momentarily loosened the straps on the Citizen, pushing it onto its side before tying it down again.  The Decepticon's fingers tapped against the metal table as it shivered.   Ratchet smiled.  "In the meantime they're spending their last days living in fear.  Trapped there, always waiting for the next attack, never knowing when it will come or how many of these," he shook the Decepticon's shoulder, "will storm through.  Can you imagine it?"

"Uh . . . yeah.  Yeah!  That would suck slag.  Ha ha!"   Frag, look at the gleam old rustbucket's optics.  What an absolute weirdo.   And _that_ was why they were still sitting here on this mudball?  That was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard.  Just shoot them and get it over with.

Ratchet finished reattaching the wires between the genericon's arm and torso.  "Ah, now I just need . . ."  He moved over to the other side of the lab for a tool.  Smokescreen took this as a sign to quietly rise from his chair.

"Help."  It took him a second to realize the whisper came from blue-visored genericon.   "Please, help me.  I'm, my name is Slingshot, I wasn't even supposed to be at the mine, I was covering a shift for a friend, _I wasn't supposed to be there,_ please, I'm a bot just like you, I know what they tell you but we're just like you, _please—"_

Smokescreen backed quickly out of the med bay.  He didn't like Vehicons when they still talk.

* * *

 

"What is this?  What _is_ this?"

"What is _what?_   Besides the _exact thing you asked me to get."_

"I said _galvanized_ steel!"

"That IS galvanized."

"Yes! Galvanized _iron!_ Idiot!"  Knock Out threw the pipe at Bumblebee's head.

Two weeks in, the space bridge project could have been going better.

Bumblebee picked up the pipe, resisting the urge to throw it back at Knock Out's stupid face.  He stalked back to his side of the room, or as Knock Out called it "the messy half."  The 'Con had some nerve—like his chair wasn't surrounded by crumpled up pieces of holopaper!  And anyway, Bumblebee's side was messy because he was collecting material for the space bridge—AND because Knock Out had shoveled "all this human junk" out of his side of the room!  Horrible, hypocritical Decepticon.

Bumblebee growled to himself as he began disassembling a broken chair.  (He was _trying_ to salvage broken material when he could.  It made him feel less guilty about stealing from the Deceptibots.)  They were never going to get home.  He was going to die here with the most superficial, annoying, temper tantrum throwing Decepticon there ever was.  While pretending to be a clone.  Frag his life.

"Are you even working?" Bumblebee said.

Knock Out put down his stylus and datapad. "What kind of question is _that?_  Yes, Bumblebee, I am working."

"Sometimes you play sudoku."

"For a few minutes, yes.  Oh dear, how dare I!"

"Well, we _are_ trying to get home."  Normally Bumblebee would have avoided sounding so sanctimonious and prissy, but since it got under Knock Out's plating . . . "I know this is hard for you to understand, but _Autobots_ have this thing called _work ethic."_

"I only do it when your presence begins to eat away at my higher processor functions.  All things considered, I've been the model of restraint."

"Whatever." 

Bumblebee returned to his task.  Knock Out insisted that the different materials needed to be sorted out ahead of time before they were put into the . . . magic thing-creating machine.  Figured that the 'Cons would have something like that and not the Autobots.  So unfair. 

"Why _are_ you in such a mood, anyway?" Bumblebee asked after a few minutes.  "Had another therapy thing with Trauma?"

Knock Out didn't answer, just leaned closer to his datapad.

"I don't get what your problem is.  He's really nice."

"I don't have 'a problem'."

"Then why do you stalk around snarling after every session?"

"I _don't."_

"Oh yes you do.  Why were you even in there, anyway?  It's not your usual day, is it?"

"No," Knock Out said in a tight, controlled voice.  Then he ruined the effect by tossing the datapad down and crossing his arms.  "If you _must_ know, Knockdown sent me there.  A complete overreaction."

"Why?  What did you do?"

"Nothing!  Nothing at all.  Hardly anything. This Citizen was brought in by some of his friends—"

"Who?" Bumblebee asked.  He knew a lot of the Citizens now.

"How the frag should I know?  One of the fliers.  He botched his landing.  Anyway, his friends were in hysterics—apparently having come through a war without ever seen spilled energon—and Knockdown told me to quiet them down while he dealt with the patient."

"You?  Why not Trauma?"

"He wasn't there."

"The Twins?"

"He sent them top deck to retrieve the patient's arm."

"Whoa."

"Yes."

"That was some accident."

"Eh." The medic shrugged. "It happens."

"So what was the problem?"

"There _wasn't_ a problem.  I told them to shut up and they did."

"And Knockdown got upset over _that?"_

Knock Out tapped his finger on his arm as he studied the ceiling. "I _might_ have brought out my buzzsaws—"

"Uh huh."

"—and told them the first one who made a sound would find out exactly what their friend was going through."

"Wow, you didn't even threaten to murder them!  Such restraint!"

"I wasn't going to _do_ it.  They'd have made me clean up the mess."

"Yeah, but that doesn't explain why Trauma gets your circuits in a snarl."

"Trauma, Trauma, Trauma!" Knock Out snapped. "I hope Megatron rips your voicebox out again so I can have some peace."

Bumblebee's hands slowly curled into fists.  "Say that again."  He was painfully aware of his warbles and beeps.

"I think you heard," Knock Out sneered, pushing his chair back as he rose.  "Or are your audials as fragged up as your voice?"

"Get back here and face me like a mech, you worthless heap of tin!"

"No thanks.  I wouldn't want to ruin your _precious_ scrapheap of human memorabilia."  Knock Out gave him a mocking smile from the doorway.  "I'm going for a drive."

Bumblebee seethed.  After all this time, Knock Out still wouldn't tell him where his "secret driving spot" was.  If it even existed.  "Fine!  You do that!"

"Fine.  I will."

And with that Knock Out flounced out.

 _Because of course he can't just WALK,_ Bumblebee thought, hands still clenched.  _Of course not._

He was tempted to stomp out and give the Decepticon a piece of his mind, and maybe a punch to the faceplate as well.  But he didn't want to draw attention to Dreadwing's old room, especially now that a significant portion of the wall was covered with Knock Out's notes on space bridges.

So that type of revenge was out.  _But . . ._

Bumblebee opened his arm compartment and took out the phase shifter, quickly slapping it onto his wrist.  He carried it all the time now, partly in case Knock Out snuck into his room to search for it (which he was sure the 'Con had done at least once), partly because he never knew when he'd have an opportunity to scavenge for supplies.

He hurried out the door and just caught sight of Knock Out turning the far corner of the corridor.  He followed at a safe distance, ready to dart through the wall into an abandoned room if Knock Out turned around.  But the 'Con never looked back.  He stalked through the ship, up ramps and around corners, until he pushed open a door and stepped through.  Bumblebee hung back a few minutes before doing the same.

A blast of arctic air greeted him, a strong wind that blew through his seams and sent little snow flurries snaking across the deck.  The wind kept the surface of the deck free from snow for the most part, but Bumblebee could clearly see tire tracks in the light dusting that remained.

 _This_ was Knock Out's great, secret race track?  The deck of the ship?  Out in the _cold?_

Bumblebee's brows were tilted in confusion as he looked around for the 'Con.  He didn't see him.  Had he doubled back or—

A red leg kicked out from above, punting the phase shifter clean off his wrist.  Startled, Bumblebee stared upward, but Knock Out was already letting go of the pipe he'd swung from, landing in a crouch and racing towards the phase shifter.

"Finders keepers!" he sang as he sped by.

"You filthy CHEAT!" Bumblebee shrieked.  He lunged forward, catching the Decepticon's leg and sending them both crashing onto the deck.

"Leeet GO!" Knock Out kicked the scout in the head with his other pede as he scrabbled at the deck, the phase shifter just out of reach.

"Not in this lifetime!" Bumblebee crawled over the Decepticon, depending on his weight to keep him down as he, too, struggled to reach the relic.

"You're scuffing my _paint!"_ Knock Out clawed at the Autobot's finish, but Bumblebee didn't care if he got some superficial scratches.

He _did_ care if someone suddenly jammed their claws into his elbow joint, though, and that was Knock Out's next move.

"OW, frag!"

Knock Out pushed him off, but Bumblebee batted the relic away.  They chased after it, Bumblebee almost grabbing it before Knock Out shoved his hand into his face and kicked phase shifter away.  Both of them scrambling across the icy deck, slipping and shoving and smacking the phase shifter away from each other until . . .

"Oh no . . ."

Bounce, bounce, roll, the phase shifter skidded across a patch of ice as both mechs watched with horror widened optics.

"No!"

"Don't!"

Skid, spin, roll, right off the deck.

"You idiot!" Knock Out howled.  "Look what you've done!"

"This is your fault as much as mine!"  Bumblebee ran over to the side of the ship and looked over the edge . . . and gave a vent of relief.  Of course, the ship was surrounded by ice, along with most of the bay.  If he just crawled down the railing—

"See you, Autobrat," Knock Out said, doing just that.

"Hey!"

"Who dares, wins," Knock Out said, holding the railing in one hand as he stretched to reach the phase shifter with the other.

"You're unbelievable."  Bumblebee swung his legs over and climbed down after him.

It was an unhappy coincidence that his pede came down just as Knock Out shifted his stance and changed hands.  Like most medics, Knock Out was protective of his hands.  He saw several tons of Autobot about to step on one of them.

He let go.

"Knock Out!" Bumblebee's irritation turned to alarm as Knock Out landed on the ice.  His spark churned in his chest, waiting for the ice to break, waiting for the Decepticon to sink into the depths of the freezing bay.

Knock Out remained frozen in an awkward, half-curled position for a few seconds before daring to straighten out.  He looked at the ice under his hands.  Hardened water, that's all it was.  But he could see the thickness of it, the bubbles trapped inside going down, down, down. 

He was lighter in vehicle mode;  he lost weight and mass in the transformation process.  With this in mind, he snatched up the relic and transformed.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, his tires rocking back and forth a little on the ice.  "Looks like I win this round."

Bumblebee hopped over the railing, dropping into vehicle mode as soon as he hit the ice.  "Oh yeah?  Let's see if you can get it back on the ship."

"Easy," Knock Out said scornfully.  But when he drove towards the _Heretic_ , Bumblebee blocked him.  Wherever he was, the yellow Urbana was there first.  _Most_ annoying!  And he kept trying to sideswipe him, too, the brat!  Knock Out had gone through so much to get his door back;  he wasn't going to let it get wrecked by some hothead! 

"Go to the Pit, Bug," Knock Out hissed, gunning his engine.  He'd zip around to the other side of the ship and vault on board before the Autobot could do anything about it;  yes, that's what he'd do.

He forgot to take the ice into account.  He was hardly an expert winter driver;  with the _Nemesis_ ' space bridge at his disposal he had never had to worry about such things.  It was always summer _somewhere._

So Knock Out was more than a little dismayed when his tires turned at the curve, but his trajectory did not.  His rearview mirror twitched to reveal the _Heretic_ getting farther and farther away.  The Autobrat was pursuing him, though, and Knock Out could clearly hear his hollering:  "HEY!  Where do you think you're _going_ with that?"

That, at least, was satisfying.  And why admit to a mistake when he could take advantage of it instead?    Knock Out straightened out his tires, waited until he felt he had some measure of control, and rocketed across the ice

Behind him Bumblebee slowed down, then sped up.  Where?  Where did that crazy 'Con think he was going?? 

"Knock Out!" he shouted, trying to gain on him, trying not to panic as he skidded.  He lived in the middle of a desert!  He wasn't used to this scrap!  He tried to take a shortcut through a snowdrift and discovered that well-packed snow was no friend to a sports car with extremely low clearance.  The worst part was that he could clearly hear Knock Out laughing at him as he struggled to back out of the mess.

Knock Out learned from Bumblebee's mistake;  he skirted the snow drifts, following a meandering path over the bare, windswept patches of ice.  Almost to the shore now, and praise be to Primus, there was a _road._   Covered with potholes, yes, and generally looking like it belonged in some post-apocalyptic movie, but still . . . _a real asphalt road._

Knock Out put on a burst of speed and gained just enough momentum to fly up the bank, wheels landing with a thud on the asphalt.  The same wind that was sweeping over his hood had kept the road mostly clear, piling the snow in thick drifts on the wooded slope to the left.

Pausing to examine the scenery gave Bumblebee a chance to catch up.  He, too, skidded onto the road in vehicle mode.

"The _relic,_ Knock Out."  His engine growled threateningly .

Knock Out revved right back at him, meeting his challenge.  "You want it?"  His gas petal sank to the floor as he bypassed the Autobot.  "Come get it!"

Bumblebee tore after him.   They whipped around a curve, dodged around opposite sides of a deep pothole, and left snowflakes dancing madly in their wake.  The powerful Aston Martin got a nose in front, then the sleek Urbana. 

This was Bumblebee's chance—to cut across Knock Out's path, to force him to stop.  Instead he shifted gears and increased his lead.  He felt reckless, wonderful, his engine burning hot and his tires tearing up the pavement.  Knock Out's engine rumbled as he fought to pull ahead, to _win._

Trees whipped by to the left and the bay stretched out to the right, but the road was everything now.  They screamed around a curve, losing a little speed as Bumblebee slipped, scraped up against Knock Out.  Knock Out fishtailed enough to shove him away, but there were no taunts now, no cat-calls.  Just the race. A burst of speed around a tight corner, with Bumblebee barely in the lead—

And he gave a shout as the road ahead of them disappeared.  Transforming, he braced his feet as his arms wheeled backwards.   Knock Out transformed as well, based on the Autobot's reaction, and Bumblebee managed to grab the medic's arm before he toppled down to join the debris of the landslide.

"Well," Knock Out said after a moment.

"Yeah," Bumblebee said.  Probably he should have said something—about the relic, or about how foolish they'd been to race on an unknown, abandoned road, or about how they should get back to the ship before anyone missed them.  But his sensors were still thrumming and his tires were still hot and pliable from friction. 

Knock Out didn't say anything either, not even about his scraped paint.  He wandered over to the guard rail, his engine pinging and plinking as it cooled.  Bumblebee followed him when he slipped over the guard rail and picked his way down the slope.

Beyond the debris of the landslide was a small, rocky beach.  Perhaps this part of the bay got more sun;  whatever the case, there was a stretch of open water lapping along the beach, although it was speckled with ice floes.

Knock Out wandered here and there, prodding at an empty crab shell with his pede or breaking tiny pockets of ice with his pointed toe.  Bumblebee dared to get closer to the water, leaning over to pick up a flat rock.

"I need the phase shifter, though," he said after a minute, "to gather material."

"Ohhh, I _suppose."_   Knock Out carelessly drew the relic out and threw it to him. 

Bumblebee caught it and clipped it to his wrist for safe keeping.  He looked at the relic as he weighed the stone in his hand, then drew back his arm and sent the rock skipping across the smooth surface of the water.

He turned around to find Knock Out studying him—but the Decepticon immediately shifted his eyes, nonchalantly gazing along the beach.

"Might be a good place to test things out, later on."

Bumblebee knew it was just an excuse for another race.

"Yeah," he said.  "Might be."


	28. Post-Traumatic Stress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trauma worries. Knock Out internalizes. And Airachnid just wants Soundwave out of her room, damn it.

I'm shooting out of this room  
Because I sure don't like the company.  
Stop your preaching right there  
'Cause I really don't care  
And I'll do it again.  
So get me out of my head  
Because it's getting kind of cramped, you know;  
Coming ready or not,  
When the motor gets hot  
We can do it again.

\- Bulletproof Heart, My Chemical Romance

 

* * *

"I wonder," Knockdown said, "if Knock Out is really content here."

Trauma looked up from the report he was working on. "What makes you say that?"

"He's been begging for time off recently; he even skipped a shift  _twice_." Knockdown took a beaker off the shelf, frowned at it, and put it back. "Your opinion, Trauma? Has he said anything?"

"I wish I could say, but doctor-patient confidentiality—"

"Yes, I'm aware of your obligations," Knockdown said a little too patiently. "I don't need details of his sessions, just your overall impression—for his own good. Has he been distressed lately?"

Trauma paused. Knockdown was his superior officer, but the CMO was not entitled to even this much information. According to the Decepticon code of medical ethics, psychologists were duty-bound to protect a patient's privacy, except in cases where the patient was a threat to themselves or others.

But Trauma was so seldom asked his opinion.

"To be honest I'd say the opposite. He seems happier lately, more relaxed for the most part."

"For the most part'?" Trust Knockdown to jump on that.

"Oh, nothing serious." Trauma said, keeping his tone casual; this was a subject he wanted to avoid, and not just to protect Knock Out's privacy. "He hasn't expressed any dissatisfaction in his work, so I wouldn't worry about it."

"But in other areas?" Knockdown persisted.

"It's nothing, really. He just does a double take sometimes when he sees . . . When he's surprised, sometimes. A minor glitch."

Knockdown frowned. "If he's glitching, I should examine him."

"It's neurological in origin. There's no point," Trauma said firmly. Knock Out hadn't exactly been eager to open up to the psychologist, and he would be even less inclined if he discovered that Trauma had been doling out his personal information. "As for him wanting time off, maybe he's just looking for a change? He's young, after all."

"Well." Knockdown tapped the top of an empty cube while he thought. "He  _has_ been cooped up doing replicator work for quite some time. It seemed safer after the various . . . incidents."

Trauma just nodded. He was well acquainted with Knock Out's 'incidents', as in the aftermath of each he ended up counseling not only Knock Out, but usually whatever unfortunate patients had been in proximity. Still, the red clone's mischief-making  _was_ getting less frequent and less severe. He'd behaved himself for over a week now.

"I'll set up a more varied roster for him," Knockdown concluded.

"Sounds good," Trauma said. He did not tell his workaholic boss his suspicion: that Knock Out had simply discovered something more enjoyable than work.

* * *

Bumblebee was, Knock Out had to admit, sometimes fairly tolerable. Not that he was  _thrilled_ to be stuck in this backwards world with him, not that he considered him a  _friend,_ but there were worse Autobots to be stranded with.

Of course, some of his warm feelings might be due to the fact that he'd just beaten Bumblebee in a race.

"Okay, but you cheated," Bumblebee beeped, crossing his arms.

"Tsk tsk, Bug, no one likes a sore loser." Knock Out stretched, allowing the watery winter sun the privilege of brightening his plating. "You don't see  _me_ complaining, and I'm the one who suffered a minor malfunction—"

"Minor malfunction? You pulled ahead of me and dumped  _gallons_ of oil on the road!" Bumblebee dramatically pointed at rainbow-sheened slick still rolling slowly across the asphalt. "I nearly went over the guard rail!"

Knock Out laughed, partly at the memory, partly at Bumblebee's indignant posture—leaning forward, hands fisted on his hips. "You pulled up in time, so who cares?"

"I swear to Primus, next time I'm bringing water balloons filled with paint."

"You wouldn't dare." Knock Out hoped this was true, both for the sake of his paint and because a trail of paint over the ice would make it rather obvious that they'd been sneaking off the ship. So far no one was the wiser.

"We'll see," Bumblebee said ominously. Then, in a worried tone: "We should clean up the oil."

"Clean it up?"

"Yeah. An animal might lick it or something."

"So?"

 _"So_  they'd get sick, maybe die. Primus, Knock Out!"

Knock Out couldn't help laughing again. Leave it to an Autobot to worry Earth's precious, precious animals while befriending a species that bought billions of cow-burgers from K.O. Burger alone. "Are all Autobots like you?"

"Yeah, yeah, we're all a hivemind. Whatever makes you happy." Bumblebee crouched to scrape at the oil with a handful of leaves.

"Mmm." Knock Out contented himself with sitting on the guard rail in a comfortable slouch, rolling one of his heel-tires on the asphalt as he watched. "Well, you're strange."

 _"You're_ strange."

"Ooo, nice comeback! My circuits burn with shame."

"Oh, hush up." Bumblebee's hands were covered in oil now, but the mess on the pavement was, if anything, worse. "This isn't working."

"Oh no! Bumblebee, you've  _failed_ the poor animals? I'm . . . I'm moved to tears just thinking about it." Knock Out pulled a chamois cloth out of his arm compartment and dabbed at his eyes.

"You had that the whole—? Give me that!"

"Ah ah, ask nicely!"

"Primus below—"

"Oh, you  _flatter_ me."

"—you are so annoying."

Knock Out snickered and tossed him the cloth. He would wait for perfect moment to inform Bumblebee that it was made out of goat.

"That was a good race, though," Bumblebee said after a minute.

"It was," Knock Out agreed comfortably; the chill of winter was only just beginning to leach away the red-hot burn in his engine. He continued rolling his foot against the pavement as he watched the Autobot ruin a perfectly good chamois cloth. Annoying, normally, but he knew there were more to be found in Dreadwing's room. Collecting human junk had  _some_ benefits, it seemed. "Bee, really, you're just spreading that muck around."

"Shut up. I'm cleaning it."

"Yes, yes, you're a regular sanitation bot. If you'd 'cleaned' the Downdraft like that they'd have tossed you off of it."

"What's the Downdraft?"

"'What's the Downdraft?'" Knock Out imitated, rolling his optics more dramatically than was strictly necessary. "Only the most prominent skyway in Vos. Such ignorance! For shame."

"Wow, I can't believe I forgot a random street name from a dead city."

Knock Out didn't respond, just kept rolling his treads and gazing at the sky. Bumblebee felt a sudden pang of guilt.  _Optimus_  wouldn't have made a remark like that. Vos might have been an enemy city, but it was a Cybertronian city. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

"Hmm?" Knock Out pulled himself out of his reverie, his optic ridges rising in what seemed to be genuine surprise. "Why not? You weren't wrong; it's dead. There's no point in remembering." His black shoulder flares lifted and dropped in a shrug. "Relax. I didn't expect a whelp like you to actually know."

As was often the case, Knock Out's reassurance made Bumblebee feel worse. He wanted to scold the 'Con for dismissing the deaths of thousands, but could not because he'd done it first. He wanted to accuse Knock Out of shortchanging him with his assumption of Bumblebee's ignorance. Except he'd been right.

"Well, I'm sorry anyway. So, um, a skyway is like . . . an air street?"

"That's right. They were marked with rails, beacons, that sort of thing. That's what they polished."

"Well, heh, doubt they would've wanted me for that job anyway. No wings."

"Doorwings, but you wouldn't get far on those," Knock Out snickered. "And you look perfect for rooting around in the muck. Most sanitation bots were grounders anyway."

Bumblebee blinked. Everyone knew Vos was the city of Seekers, the most slim and agile of jets. " _Vos_ didn't have grounders."

"Ohhh ho ho, yes it did! Not  _many,_ I'll grant you, but they existed."

"But grounders cleaning a sky street?" ("A  _skyway,_ Autobot.") "Wouldn't that be—I don't want to sound functionist here, but—wouldn't that be a bad idea? Like, dangerous? How high were these things?"

"They went up miles and miles." Knock Out gestured beyond the tops of the trees as though the shining skyways of Vos hung above them. "And how they gleamed . . ." He must have felt Bumblebee's optics on him, because he hurried on in a less dreamy tone, "Of course the work was dangerous; that's why it was assigned to grounders and other such riffraff."

"Ah, I get it . . ."

Despite the fact that the caste system had collapsed by the time he was sparked (along with Cybertronian society as a whole) Bumblebee knew enough about it to hate it. But he had to admit the idea of  _all_ grounders being shunted into the lower castes unsettled him in a way that the caste struggles of datasticks or heavy construction vehicles had not.

He said, cautiously, "You seem very familiar with Vos."

"Naturally. It was one of the great cities." Knock Out studied his sleek, pointed fingers. "Until the Autobots bombed it off the map."

"Right, right." Bumblebee wiped his servos off on the cloth, although it was so saturated with grease that his hands came away dirtier than ever. He held it out to Knock Out. "I was just wondering, since you said Vos had grounders after all—"

"Ugh, no  _thank you_ , you can keep that rag." Knock Out recoiled from the soiled cloth with a dramatic shudder. But just as quickly he was leaning forward, his smile wide and wicked. "Guess what it's made from."

The next few minutes consisted of Bumblebee shouting, Knock Out laughing, and the rag being hurled back and forth as a weapon of war. It did not escape Bumblebee's notice, when they had calmed down, that Knock Out had avoided the question. But he let it lie. It was none of his business.

And he would find out sooner or later anyway, he figured. Knock Out was not as good at keeping secrets as he thought.

* * *

_"Got a secret, can you keep it? Swear this one you'll save. Better lock it in your pocket, taking this one to the grave—"_

"Well, there he is." Airachnid's optics narrowed as she glared through the open door of her quarters, where Soundwave was currently milling aimlessly and blasting Earthen music. "Our resident nutjob."

"There he is indeed, but surely you can shoo him out yourself, Airachnid." She lowered her voice. "And could you  _please_ refrain from calling our unfortunate colleague such things?"

"I'll call him anything you want if you get him to leave of my room. And if you think it's possible to keep him out of  _anywhere_ once he puts his mind to it—"

Starscream waved a hand to placate her. Airachnid had a point; even before, it had been difficult to keep Soundwave out with lock and key. No one alive could rival his precision when it came to ground bridges. Oh yes, Starscream had had to lay down the law more than once over his tendency to . . . indulge his curiosity; Lord Megatron would not stand for his troops having their privacy violated, fond though he was of Soundwave. Starscream did not disapprove of Soundwave's shenanigans quite so much; he had uncovered useful information more than once, even rooting out spies.

But it was distasteful in her opinion and, more importantly, bad for morale. The least Soundwave could do, she felt, was be discreet. Rearranging one's belongings and leaving little notes was hardly as humorous as Soundwave had thought.

In this instance, Soundwave appeared to have hacked through the door's passcode system rather than bridging in. Starscream had already sent a request to Spool to fix it.

Starscream regarded the blue and white communications officer thoughtfully. Soundwave was not actually doing any  _harm_ —merely standing there playing his music. Just another whim he had indulged when it floated into his head, as loose and wispy as the cobwebs he was wrapping around his fingers.

"Did you ask him to leave?"

"What a novel idea." Airachnid tapped her foot. "Begging for access to my own quarters—"

"Airachnid." Starscream silenced her with a look. "Did you  _ask_ him?"

Airachnid's thin chestplates expanded outward with the force of her sigh. "Yes,  _Air Commander,_ I did. But true to form, since my request wasn't made over the humans' shortwave radio network, he ignored me. So I called you."

Oh dear. Airachnid's confidence in her was touching, she supposed, but when Soundwave was in a mood to ignore the outside world, he generally ignored everyone equally. Well, except Shockwave. But Shockwave, blast his finials, wasn't here. "I'll see what I can do."

She advanced into the room to assess the situation. Unsurprisingly, some of Airachnid's spiders had escaped. Or perhaps Airachnid purposely let her pets free-roam, not caring about the webs they left behind.

Well, Starscream was not there to critique Airachnid's housecleaning. The jet black Seeker approached Soundwave, who was busily herding spiders into an empty energon cube. She cleared her throat, then cleared it again, more pointedly, when Soundwave didn't react.

That got his attention. He set down the cube and turned. Starscream found herself look at a reflection of her golden face as his mask tilted towards her, inquisitive.

"Hello Soundwave," Starscream said. She raised her voice to be heard over the music that was still blasting from his chassis. "Could you turn off the radio please?"

Soundwave twisted his helm to look around the room, then stared back at Starscream. Perhaps he hadn't understood the question. Perhaps he had somehow tuned out the noise. Perhaps he just didn't feel like obeying. The music continued to play.

"Hrm . . . very well. Soundwave, you realize these are Airachnid's quarters?" Soundwave gave no acknowledgement. Starscream shelved her usual subtleties and said, "Well, Soundwave, these  _are_  Airachnid's quarters and she would like you to leave."

Soundwave straightened, scratched his arm joint, then slowly drew a large spider out of it. His gaze fixed on it skittered round and round his hand.

"Be  _careful,_  for frag's sake! That species is endangered!" Airachnid was hovering in the doorway, watching.

"Airachnid, please." Starscream said. "Soundwave, set down the creature and follow me." She firmly gripped Soundwave's other hand. He did not object to the contact. But he did not move, either. Even when Starscream pulled.

Starscream flexed her vents, repressing a huff of annoyance. She had no doubt that could extract Soundwave  _eventually,_ but how long would it take? She had a schedule to maintain. Flight practice with a group of Citizens, then doing a fly-over of the energon mines, then going over battle strategies with Lord Megatron—and if they didn't hammer them out in advance then he would use it as an excuse to charge helm-first into Optimus Prime during the next battle instead of hanging back like any sensible general would.

Lord Megatron had told her, many times, that she should stop "shouldering so much of the burden" (although she did not consider her duties a burden in the least) and delegate more. And in this case, she decided, he was correct.

She stepped out of the room, keeping her posture straight and proper. "I'm afraid Soundwave is not inclined in leaving at the moment, Airachnid."

"Interesting, Screamy, because  _I_ am still very interested in seeing him vacate.

"I understand, but I simply haven't the time."

"So you're just going to  _leave_ him there? What am I supposed to do? That is my room! And frag knows what he's doing to my breeding projects!"

"I'm sure he won't harm your organic . . . projects. I'll send Trauma over to help. He has an excellent rapport with Soundwave. Now if you'll pardon me—" Starscream started down the hall, pausing only to look behind her and add, "Oh, and Airachnid? Your pets would be less endangered if you kept them  _contained."_

* * *

"Of course I'll help," Trauma said, walking with Starscream as she headed towards the upper deck. "Poor Soundwave, he does get confused easily."

"Tell me, Trauma, has there been any change in him?"

For the second time that day a superior officer was asking for information that they weren't entitled to . . . and Starscream's position made her harder to deny than Knockdown. Still, Trauma was far more reluctant to discuss Soundwave's condition due to its severity.

"Well, these things take time," Trauma said uncomfortably. "There's still hope."

Starscream cast him a look that was both sympathetic and shrewd. "I have no doubt in your abilities, you understand." She paused in the doorway to the hangar, gesturing towards the Citizens who were quietly chatting amongst themselves, awaiting her. "I hear many complimentary tales from those you have helped, doctor."

"Oh—well. That's . . . Tthank you." Patients, no matter how grateful, rarely called him by his honorific.

Starscream seemed to be waiting for him to say something further, so he added, "Some cases are more complex than others."

"Of course they are," Starscream nodded, compassion in every lumen of her blue optics. "And in Soundwave's case—" She clicked her tongue.

"I've never seen anything like it," Trauma confessed impulsively.

"Nor I," Starscream said, her wings making a quick, ironic dip. "And I daresay I am a great deal older than you, my dear." She was silent a moment. "Answer one question, Trauma. That is all I require. Would Soundwave be helped or hindered if Shockwave were to return to the  _Heretic?"_

Trauma swallowed, rubbing the tips of his matte black fingers together.

"Helped," he said.

Starscream sighed; Trauma couldn't tell if she was pleased or disappointed. "I shall see what I can do."

He watched her go, trying to ignore the clench of anxiety in his stomach. He did not regret answering her; he only hoped his answer had been the right one.

* * *

"Are they gone yet?" Knock Out hissed.

"Not yet," Bumblebee answered in his softest warble. The two sports cars had returned to the  _Heretic_ only to find the top deck unusually active; about ten Citizens, all jets, were strolling around the top deck, socializing. Knock Out and Bumblebee, tucked in an alcove just under the side of the ship, had opted to stay hidden until they left. ("Not that we couldn't come up with some excuse," Knock Out had said, "but it's easier this way." Bumblebee had to agree.)

Now that Starscream had appeared, they were less worried about being noticed; the Citizens had focused all their attention on her, their visors bright as they clustered around her.

"Look at them." Knock Out said, fascinated, as he dared peek over the deck. "Hanging on her every word. Do you know what Starscream would do for that kind of attention?"

Bumblebee guessed he was talking about the Decepticon Second-in-Command of their own world. "No, what?"

"Anything."

They both ducked down again as Starscream transformed. The roar of her engines shook the deck as she shot into the sky. Bumblebee and Knock Out stayed put until she and the orange jets flanking her were out of sight.

 _"Finally,"_ Knock Out sighed, hoisting himself over the rail. He turned around, his arm moving in an awkward half-swing as though he was thinking about offering Bumblebee a hand and then thinking better of it.

Bumblebee cautiously reached up, ready to grab the rail if Knock Out decided not to follow through. But the red sports car grabbed his servo and pulled him up.

"Eugh." Knock Out made a face at the black oil that had transferred from Bumblebee's hand to his own. "Look at this muck."

"I've got a cloth if you want to clean up," Bumblebee said cheerfully, dropping the crumpled, oil-saturated chamois rag on Knock Out's shoulder ornamentation.

"No  _thank_ you, I'm in enough of a state." They had pelted each other with it for a good long time before heading back and were both covered with smudges. Knock Out picked the cloth off with two fingers. "You're so  _rude."_

"Picked it from you." Bumblebee enjoyed needling him. "And I'll tell you what else, I'm grabbing the washracks before you aaand I'm gonna use up all the warm solvent."

 _"Oh_ no, that is where I draw the line!" Knock Out didn't break into a run, but his strides lengthened as he headed straight for the hangar. Bumblebee grinned under his mouthplate. He sped up too—then slowed down in alarm.

He grabbed Knock Out's arm and tried to pull him back, but "Ah, ah!" Knock Out scolded archly, pulling away. Bumblebee's hands left two wide smears on Knock Out's door-arm as the Decepticon skipped backwards . . . slamming right into the bot who'd been leaning in the doorway.

A startled exclamation sounded behind the medic as he bounced off the unexpected obstacle. Arms pinwheeling, Knock Out tried to catch his balance but it was no use, the concrete floor was rushing towards him—

Fingers dug tightly into his shoulder tires and hauled him back. It saved him from the fall, but he shouted as his shoulder struts throbbed in pain, and with his tires held immobile it was the rest of his body that rotated, making it impossible to regain his balance.

Seeing the problem, or perhaps unnerved by Knock Out's screech, the bot holding him released one tire. Matte black fingers scrabbled for purchase on the smooth planes of Knock Out's chest, scraping his paint in the process.

The thin shreds of red paint fluttering to the ground were the  _last straw_ for Knock Out. Primus below, why hadn't this fragger just let him fall if they were going to manhandle him and ruin his finish? Well, he'd had enough. Knock Out rammed his elbow into the larger bot's midsection and, as he felt them begin to fold, to fall on him, twisted blindly in their grasp and shoved himself away as hard as he could.

Knock Out stumbled and caught himself in a crouch, but Trauma landed on his aft with a clang, doubled forward with his arms wrapped around his stomach. Knock Out's spark sank as he saw who it was. Well, great. More time on the couch.

He mentally prepared a charm offensive, summoning his most winning smile as he reached out to the therapist. "Sorry about that, I—"

Trauma lifted his head; Knock Out's voice died as he stared at the black, oily handprint across Trauma's face.

"Sorry," Knock Out repeated. His arms drew tight to his chest, covering his spark. "Sorry."

"Knock Out!" Bumblebee was coming up behind him, frantic and aggrieved. Knock Out gritted his dentae and put his smile back. "Knock Out, what was  _that?_  Trauma, are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Really." Trauma's smile might have been pained, but it was genuine. He allowed Bumblebee to help him up and nodded with patient understanding as Knock Out pulled himself together and apologized with something close to his usual panache.

But Knock Out could feel his eyes on his back as they left. Trauma had noticed, perhaps, that during his grand apology Knock Out had looked anywhere but his face.

Bumblebee waited until they were deep within the ship before saying, "So what was that all about?"

Knock Out's gait faltered for a moment but his expression remained carefree. "Pardon? What was what all about?"

"The thing with Trauma."

"Oh, that. He surprised me, Bug. And you could have warned me he was there, by the way!"

"I  _tried_ to!"

"Hmph."

"Anyway," the yellow mech refused to be deflected, "I meant afterwards. You were acting a little weird."

Knock Out scrunched the oily rag in his servo, absently passing it from hand to hand. "According to  _you_  I'm always 'a little weird.'"

Bumblebee couldn't deny that. "Well, weirder than normal. Way above the baseline for Decepti-weirdness."

"In what way?" Knock Out sounded confused but he also sounded concerned.

The Autobot shrugged. "I dunno. Your body language, I guess?"

"Could you be more specific?"

"It was just an impression, I didn't take notes. Geez, I'm sorry I brought it up. Please, return to hating Trauma in peace."

A pained look fleeted across Knock Out's face. "I don't  _hate_ him . . ." They'd reached Knock Out's room. He opened the door but didn't seem to want to go in. "Want to go to Dreadwing's? Work on the project? We could watch something." They'd finally fixed up the TV.

"I can't, I promised a couple of the Citizens I'd teach them lob-ball." Bumblebee hesitated. "Did you know him?"

Knock Out's red and black pupils slid towards him, then away. "A long time ago. But he wasn't a therapist. Later, Bug."

"Wait—Knock Out, wait." Bumblebee wasn't sure what impulse drove him into the room after the red mech. Maybe it was that brief, troubled expression. Maybe it was just that Knock Out had actually told him the truth about something. Or maybe it was his use of the past tense. "If you want to talk about it—"

"I don't."  _Ever,_  his tone implied. He sat down and started scrubbing the grease off his chassis.

Well then. "You know, some of the Citizens still don't like me because of the Yellowjacket thing and the—and the not knowing they were people thing—"

"I am  _not_  interested in your teen drama."

"Just let me finish. So, it was kind of screwing with my head because they all look identical. I mean, yeah, they've got their Tells, stickers and stuff, but their frames are the same—"

Knock Out raised his optic ridges in mock surprise. Bumblebee spoke faster.

"—so even when I was talking to Backfire I'd still be thinking about the scared looks I was getting from these other Citizens. It was like . . . it was like half of me was in the present, happy to hang out with my friend, and half was in the past, worrying and trying to figure out what I should've done. It got to the point where I was never a hundred percent happy to see Backfire."

"Backfire's the one who went from car to jet, right?"

"Yeah, that's him," Bumblebee was gratified for even this mild level of interest from Knock Out. "Anyway, I was talking to . . . someone . . . about it—" It was Trauma, of course. "—and they said it was transference. Like, I was transferring my feelings for one bot to the other."

"Ohhh, so you have  _feelings_  for—"

"DESIST."

"You're so easy to wind up." Knock Out looked more cheerful, at least. "So? What did he say?"

"He said to remind myself of what was different between them, like mannerisms, their interests, the way they relate to me, things like that."

Knock Out pursed his lips. "That's all? Some advice! Everyone does that anyway.  _I've_ been trying to do that."

"Yeah, but this is supposed to be more of a 'conscious effort' thing. And it gets easier the more you do it." Seeing the medic's dubious expression, Bumblebee said, "Look, there's no magic bullet."

"I'm not quite to the point of using bullets yet," Knock Out said.

Bumblebee wished he wouldn't make that kind of joke. But from Knock Out's half-hearted smile, it seemed he didn't think it was a very good one either.

* * *

Trauma had taken the time to have a quick scrub before setting out for Airachnid's room. Now, with dusty cobwebs clinging to his frame, he wondered why he'd bothered.

"It's not very pleasant here, is it, Soundwave? Want to go somewhere else?"

Soundwave didn't. He had no problem with the webs, and demonstrated it by running his hand through a swath of them on the wall.

Oh well. Trauma hadn't really expected it to be that simple. And Soundwave had stopped blasting music, at least. The lavender jet settled himself on a chair, watching and waiting for a moment where Soundwave was reachable, and wondering how Airachnid managed to keep herself so clean when her room was in this condition.

It beat worrying about how Soundwave's recovery had stalled or the incident with Knock Out in the hangar.

 _Well, at least that confirms that there's an issue. And that's the first step to addressing it._  But it . . . well, it hurt.

He knew he was being ridiculous, taking it personally. Plenty of mecha were scared of therapy; given Knock Out's history, it wasn't surprising that he was one of them.

 _But he's not afraid of therapy,_ he thought.  _He's afraid of me._

Trauma didn't want to believe it, but what else could that look have meant? It wasn't the first time he'd noticed Knock Out behaving oddly around him—tensing up for no reason, not meeting his optics (or, sometimes, staring at him  _too_  hard, like he'd forgotten how to blink), but never anything as blatant as the expression of frozen horror Knock Out had exhibited in the hangar.

He wanted to help the little red clone grapple with the past and find a safe, happy future. And although it wasn't necessary from a professional standpoint . . . he would've liked to befriend him. Knock Out was part of the medical team too, after all. It would be nice to have someone to gripe with when Knockdown got nitpicky. Trauma was fond of the Twins, but they were so innocent; he felt obligated to set a good example to them.

Oh well, there was no point worrying about it. He sighed.

Soundwave turned his head ever so slightly. Funny how he expressed so much with so little. "It's nothing, Soundwave. Just thinking about an encounter I had." Trauma did his best to keep the lines of communication open between himself and his patient, even though he knew that Soundwave often tuned out of conversations. "I startled him—he startled me too, ran right into me—and he looked . . . petrified."

Soundwave pointed a slender digit at Trauma, mask tilting in an implied question.

"Someone bumped into me and it scared them," Trauma repeated patiently. He felt justified in sharing the details since the incident hadn't happened in a session. Besides, Soundwave wouldn't tell anyone. "I scared them and now I feel bad about it."

"Trauma: not scary," Soundwave said.

Trauma straightened in surprise, then smiled gratefully. Because Soundwave had spoken and because of what he'd said. "Thank you, Soundwave."

But Soundwave had already dismissed the incident from his mind and was turned away again, his sinuous data cables sweeping across the shelf.

All at once they honed in on a picture frame, plucking it off the shelf with such surety that Trauma took note of it.

"What have you got there, Soundwave?" He moved over to see.

Clutching the object to his chest, the dark blue bot studied Trauma. At last he lowered his arms, holding out a framed graphite drawing. Clearly a piece by Dreadwing, although it was more stylized and cartoony than his usual work. Soundwave, Airachnid, and three Citizens were playing cards. Unbeknownst to Airachnid and the Citizens, a sleek, cat-like minicon lurked under the table, secretly pushing cards into Soundwave's lowered hand. Dreadwing had given the feline a lithe design and a sly smile.

"Oh dear . . . I understand. Let's go back to your room. We'll hang it on the wall." Trauma was sure Airachnid wouldn't mind giving up the picture, under the circumstances.


	29. Darkness, My Old Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shockwave receives a visitor.

I'd die for you, that's easy to say . . .  
I'd live for you, and that's hard to do,  
Even harder when you know it's not true.

All these questions, they're for real  
Like "Who would you live for?"  
"Who would you die for?"  
And "Would you ever kill?"

\- [Ride](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6BpcFxNS3i8), Twenty One Pilots

* * *

Some would have called life in the cave monotonous.  Shockwave would not have disagreed.  The definition of monotony—repetitive, predictable, characterized by uniformity—accurately described his time here.  His schedule was routine.  Waking at the same time each stellar cycle.  Tending his experiments. Refueling.  Research.

Yes. It was monotonous.

That did not mean it did not suit him or that he wished for a change.  No.  Leaving the ship, severing ties with his temperamental crewmates and their emotionally charged decisions had been for the best.  The best for everyone.

It was typical of Starscream, and aggravating, that she refused to accept that.

"You must see how ridiculous it is, holing up in this _pit_ , Shockwave," she said, pacing back and forth with her hands behind her back and her head held high.  "You talk about 'logic', but good heavens, where is the logic in watching expensive equipment rust and corrode in this dank place?"

"I have mitigated such effects with proper climate control."

"And how effective can you be all alone, no lab assistants, no engineers—"

"I am far more productive when I am left undisturbed."  He put the slightest stress on _undisturbed_.

"And what, exactly, have you 'produced' for the cause since fleeing the _Heretic_ , Shockwave?  Anything of substance?  Anything at _all?"_

"Science does not adhere to a timetable, Starscream.  It is surprising that you have forgotten this."

"And it is surprising that _you_ have forgotten how to report your progress, my dear Shockwave."

"She called him 'dear', I heard it," one of the Citizens whispered excitedly from where they were respectfully but very obviously eavesdropping a distance away.

"I _knew_ it," another loud-whispered back.

Shockwave turned his gaze on them.  His single, blue optic made it impossible to roll his eyes, not that he had been prone to such a gesture even when he had two of them to work with.  He understood the Citizens' admiration of himself and Starscream;  they had worked in tandem to free them from their prison back on Cybertron, so a positive emotional response was natural.  But he did not understand the Citizens' intense belief that he and Starscream were, or should be, entangled in a romantic liaison.

Starscream either had not heard the Citizens or was pretending not too.

"Sureshock, Fanbelt, don't be shy, come over," she gestured. "The rest of you, too."

The Citizens hurried over, clustering around Shockwave.  "Hello!"  "We've missed you, Shocks."  "It's me, Downdraft!  I changed my Tell, but it's me—"  "How are you?"

"I have been well.  I regret that my absence caused you distress, Sureshock.  Hello, Downdraft."  

His head rotated and tilted this way and that, trying to keep up with the nine chattering bots.  When he'd heard the roar of jet engines outside his cave, he had considered sequestering himself in a covert location (as he had done when Megatron had come calling) until they left.  The Citizens accompanying Starscream had changed his mind.  He had always found their presence . . . favorable.  Perhaps it was not logical to feel gratification upon finding they still chose to wear orange paint (a lighter shade of his own basepaint) even after recent events. But he felt it nonetheless.

"Shockwave, didja know we've got clones now?  On the ship?" "Someone told me you made them, is that true?"  "Why'd you choose an Autobot? You should make more of Starscream and Megatron. We'd be unstoppable then!"  "I heard you were cloning something for Starscream—to impress her."  "Fanbeeelt!"  "It's just what I _heard."_  "So—is it true?"

Nine eager Citizens leaned forward, looking for his reaction.

"I am not cloning anything for Starscream, nor do I have any romantic designs on her," he said simply.  He was not offended by their assumption; he merely wondered at its origin and its refusal to be stamped out.  "Although I acknowledge that she is a talented and intelligent bot."

The Citizens nudged each other, their visors bright.  Apparently the second part of his statement had somehow led them to forget the first part.  Most peculiar.  He looked for Starscream to back him up and express her lack of interest.

But Starscream was no longer in the room.

* * *

Perhaps Lord Megatron had been unwilling to fully explore Shockwave's little hole in the ground but that was what a Second-in-Command was for, to ensure that what _must_ be done _would_ be done.  Starscream felt no twinge of conscience as she sent nine eager Vehicons to storm Shockwave, and she barely waiting for his attention to turn to them before slipping out. What he was hiding, she would find.  For all that she had berated him, she was sure that his progress was not so scant as the barren entrance of the cave suggested.

Her suspicions were confirmed when she stepped into a large natural cavern dominated by cylindrical bio-stasis tanks, each one containing a specimen floating in a glowing golden liquid through which lazy bubbles rose. A large work station stood at the end of the room, consisting of spare equipment, a table, various tools, and a jury-rigged but functional computer.

The work station could wait, however. At the moment Starscream's was more interested in the protoforms developing within the tanks.  Bestial in form and black-ish in hue, the creatures floated in an unnaturally still slumber.  They were in varying stages of development, but most were sizeable. How had Shockwave achieved so much progress in six months?

Or had he had this hidden lab the whole time they'd been on Earth?  He had always been prone to keeping secrets.

Heavy footsteps echoed behind her.

"Starscream."  Shockwave's voice, monotone as usual, betrayed neither apprehension nor anger at having his laboratory uncovered.

"Shockwave, hello again.  I'm slightly surprised that you managed to evade your eager fans."

"I told them I wished to speak with you alone.  Which they took great delight in misconstruing."

Starscream could guess. She'd once discovered some files with stories in which she and Shockwave . . . Well, the very _inventive_ authors had spent a long time scrubbing the decks. "So you've been busy after all. Does Lord Megatron know about this little zoo of yours?"

"Yes.  He recognized the scientific value of the project."

"Really." His statement might have been partially factual, but she knew it was not the whole truth.  What Lord Megatron knew, his Second-in-Command knew. "Because the last report you submitted suggested that you were trying to clone spare frames for injured Citizens, not resurrect prehistory.  These _are_ Predacons, are they not?"

"That is correct.  Their primitive frames can be replicated more readily than those of modern Cybertronians. Therefore I concentrated on their construction."

"Except that we do not need beasts, we need medical advancements!"

"The _Heretic_ requires a strong defense.  It is static and our enemies know where it lies."

"Well, _yes_. . ."  

"And Dreadwing is dead, lowering our defensive capability considerably."

Starscream reminded herself that Shockwave could not help sounding as he did, and probably was not as utterly indifferent to Dreadwing's sacrifice as he sounded.

Besides, he had a point.  A pack of vicious Predacons would be an unpleasant surprise for any invading Autobots.

"But what about those Citizen frames?  Are you telling me you haven't done _any_ work on them?"

"My calculations indicate that using the Predacons as frontliners will drastically lower Citizen casualty rates.  Therefore I concentrated all my research on cloning the Predacons."

Again, Starscream had to admit the logic (hmph, this visit was leaving her tired of the word) of his reasoning.  "I see.  Well.  I don't understand why you couldn't keep us informed, but it does have . . . potential.  I'm sure we can find room for your pets on the ship."

"They are specimens, not pets, and I will not be returning to the _Heretic._  My work is here.  Moving it would be—"

"—illogical, yes yes."  Starscream pinched the bridge of her noseguard.

"I was going to say highly involved."

 _"Regardless,_ we could use your talents on the ship since, as you undoubtedly know, we are wrangling two energetic and excitable young clones."  She tilted her head, eyeing him from the side.  "I don't suppose _you_ know how the Autobots gained access to cloning technology? Or details of their origins?"

Shockwave paused, then shook his head.  "I was unaware of their existence until Megatron informed me.  I provided him with all relevant notes and research related to cloning."

"Mmm, yes, I read it.  But it was along the lines of a 'how-to' manual and the last thing we need is _more_ of them.  They are interesting, of course—sweet, even, in their way—but they come with such baggage. "

"I cannot help you," Shockwave said, "with their 'baggage'.  I suggest you ask Trauma.  It is his area of expertise."

How could Starscream resist such a perfect segue?  "He does his best, but he is preoccupied with another patient.  Soundwave."

Shockwave didn't move. Or speak.

"Shockwave," Starscream continued, channeling all of her regret and sympathy into her expression, "I'm afraid Soundwave is not well."

"By what measure?"

"Any you care to name.  He drifts about the ship in a daze, blasting music, barely aware of his surroundings and the people about him.  The eyes and ears of the Decepticon army, they used to call him—you recall?"  She shook her head.  "His eyes are turned inward now.  He is lost within himself."

"That is regrettable."  His voice was as flat as ever, but his antennae kept make minute shifts forwards and back, one at a time.

"Very.  Trauma worries about him. We all do."

"I am not blind to what you are trying to do, Starscream.  You are attempting to influence me."

She huffed through her vents. "All right, yes.  I am trying to get your dratted treads back on the _Heretic_ where they belong, I admit it.  But Soundwave _is_ adrift, Trauma _is_ worried, and he _does_ feel you can help."

"He is incorrect."

"And who are you to decide that?" Starscream's missiles scraped against her arms as she crossed them.  "You said it yourself: Trauma is the expert when it comes to the mind."

"He is inexperienced."

"All the more reason why you should return and help with Soundwave."

"He would not want to see me." His head dipped slightly, hiding the top of his huge blue optic beneath the orange plating that framed it.  It gave the illusion that he was frowning.

"Shockwave . . ."  Feeling a surge of pity for the scientist, Starscream rested a hand on the hulking gun barrel that constituted his left arm.  "You're wrong.  He asks about you constantly.  He misses you.  Don't you owe this to him?  To yourself?  Come home.  He will forgive you."

"I do not require forgiveness. I do not regret my actions." He raised his head, his eye as intense and emotionless as any star burning a galaxy away.  "Two lives are more valuable than one. A sacrifice was simply logical."

Starscream's fingers curled as she withdrew her hand.

* * *

"Air Commander?" Fanblade had been hanging around the end of the passageway, hoping to be the first to greet Starscream.  Seeing her face, he had second thoughts.

"Gather the others.  We are leaving."

Fanblade saluted.  "And Shockwave?"  

Starscream's mouth pressed thin. "Staying."

The Citizens fell into formation and transformed, dragging a pall of silence behind the Air Commander the whole way home.

* * *

"Still hard at work, Doctor?"

"Just cleaning up for the night."  Knockdown glanced at Starscream, who was tapping her chin, pretending to find interest in the way he was pouring expired medical grade energon down the sink. She didn't appear to be injured.  But she was here, wings high and tense.  After a moment he said, "I have some reports I'd like you to look at."

"Certainly."

He retreated to his office, returning with two steaming cubes of energon in his hands and a few reports tucked under his arm.  With his head, he gestured for her to follow.  The medical hangars were two flights down.  He bumped a button with his elbow and the doors drew back, opening slowly on a gibbous moon that cast a pale glow on the ice far below.  The two Seekers sat on the pitted metal floor, letting their legs dangle.

Picking up the reports, Starscream ran her optics over them in a perfunctory fashion before setting them aside, taking a long sip from her cube.

"Excellent brew."

"Thank you."

"Flavoring?"

"Tungsten." Knockdown leaned back on his arms, watching the stars wheel slowly across the sky.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

"I paid a visit to Shockwave today."

Knockdown lifted his optic ridges.  "How'd that go?"

"I gathered valuable information," she said slowly, "yet my honest answer would be . . . poorly."

"I see . . . "  

"Did you know him before the war? Shockwave."

"I knew of him."

"Ah yes, he was quite flashy as a senator.  Quite the rabble rouser."  She rested her cheek on her palm.  "Well. The war changed us all, one way or another."

"Yes . . ."

They looked out at the bay, listening to the wind sweeping through the pines.

"These reports," Starscream said presently, looking at them.  They were simple scouting reports. Very simple.  Ampule's read: _There wasn't anything._  Jumpstart's was one word longer: _I saw a bear._  Her lip plate twitched upward. "Most impressive.  Where did you send them?"

"Just around the bay."

"I see.  Vital intel."

"Well, I know you like to be kept current."  He hid his own smile behind his cube.

"Indeed, Knockdown, indeed."  She stood, flexing her wings as she stretched.  "Well, I must take my leave.  I still have to—"

"Go to bed.  Doctor's orders."

"Hmm, I outrank you."

"Not on medical matters."  He swung his legs back from the edge and got to his pedes, taking the empty cube from her.  "Want a sleeping aid?"

"It's not a question of not being _able_ to sleep, Knockdown, it's a question of not having ti-i-ime."  She stifled a yawn; the CMO lifted an eyebrow.  "Oh, don't give me the look.  I'll be in bed in an hour."

"A half hour."

"Forty minutes."

"Deal."

They shared a small smile.

"Good night, Doctor."

"Good night, Air Commander."

* * *

Shockwave was not bothered by the discovery of his latest experiments.  He had known it would happen sooner or later, and Starscream's reaction had been favorable once he had laid out the logic of the situation.  Furthermore, her opinion carried great weight with Megatron.  

Yes. It had been a good day.

Shockwave was uncertain why it had left him so . . . unsettled.

Life in the cave was repetitive, predictable, characterized by uniformity.  But it was 23:00 (local Earthen time) and Shockwave was still awake.  An irregularity.

His cot creaked as he stood. If he could not sleep, then he would work. He typed his password into the console and began to compose a graph of the Predacons' comparable growth rates.

At 23:53, the barrage of text messages began. "QUERY: YOU ARE IN THE CAFETERIA?"

"QUERY:  YOU ARE IN YOUR ROOM?"

"YOUR DOOR IS LOCKED."

"OBSERVATION: YOU ARE NOT IN YOUR ROOM."

"QUERY: YOU ARE IN THE ARENA?"

Then five cat videos sent in rapid succession.

Shockwave stood with his good hand poised over the keyboard, waiting for Soundwave's next missive.  But no more came.

It was for the best.  Shockwave had no time for frivolities. He had research to conduct.  Deliveries to receive.  He had, as Starscream had pointed out, duties.  He began typing again. Why he had stopped in the first place he could not say.

Nor could he say why his processor kept returning to Starscream.  Calculating the percentage her optics had widened, then narrowed.  Quantifying the stiffening of her back and the fall of her wings.  And analyzing her final, clipped words in the narrow hall: "It was not your sacrifice to make."

After a moment he moved the cat videos to his 'Save' folder and continued his work.

* * *

It took all his weight to keep Trauma's face pressed into the rust-shards.

 _"It'll be all right, it'll be quick, it'll be all right,"_ Knock Out repeated, but Trauma thrashed and screamed and wouldn't believe him and wouldn't _shut up shut up shut up_ until Knock Out slapped him hard enough to make his hand sting.  That stunned him long enough for Knock Out to raise his arm high ( _Trauma saw it coming and nearly shoved him off then)_ and bring his buzzsaw down. Energon sprayed from a major line, staining Knock Out's chest, raining back on Trauma.  

Even then Trauma wouldn't stop screaming, so Knock Out brought the saw down again and again, again and again, and welcomed the moments when its whine overpowered his friend's cries.  But Trauma still wouldn't _shut up,_ not after his lines bled into a pool around them, not after Knock Out bisected his vocalizer—  

Through his chestplates then, hacking madly, without skill, prying up the lavender plating and not caring when his fingertips snapped, until Trauma's spark trembled before him.  Knock Out sunk his broken claws into it.  The spark guttered and extinguished but the scream did not.

 _"Why won't you just let me help you?  I'm doing this for you!"_ Knock Out screamed back, shaking him by the shoulders.  Trauma's optics were dark and his head flopped lifelessly, almost severed from his neck struts.  But he was still screaming.

 _"Interesting,"_ said a voice by his ear.  Trauma was crouching beside him, purple and gold plating barely dinged.  He ran his red optics over the mangled corpse Knock Out was clutching and gave him a sardonic smile.   _"It seems I'm not dead yet.  You'd better do it again."_

Knock Out woke up.

For a long while he remained still and tensed, straining his audials.  But the only sound was the hum of the ship's automated life support systems and the slight, persistent rattle of his own plating.

 _I never used to dream. I never used to._  Maybe he hated Trauma after all.

* * *

"Bumblebee."  The voice was quiet, urgent, and right in his audial.  "I need the Phase Shifter."

"Wha. Knock Out?"  What time was it?  Late.  Late-late.  "Phase Shifter. Why?"

"It's private."

Bumblebee was too tired to ask for more details.  He fumbled the relic out of his interior compartment, pushing it towards the 'Con.

"Thanks. I'll bring it back."

"Mmhm, mmhm, 'kay.  Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Bumblebee mumbled, flopping an arm over his optics.  Knock Out's lack of response was not noteworthy enough to keep him from sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She doesn't appear in this chapter, but look at this lovely picture I commissioned from [erikaskerzz](https://erikaskerzz.tumblr.com/post/163703092796/glass-spider-a-commission-for-blueskyscribe-who) of SG Airachnid. :)
> 
>  


	30. The Secrets We Keep and Those We Create

Let me know that I've done wrong  
When I've known this all along.  
I go around a time or two  
Just to waste my time with you.

Tell me all that you've thrown away,  
Find out games you don't wanna play . . .  
You are the only one that needs to know.

\- [Dirty Little Secret](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R1j9NASRQgU), The All-American Rejects

* * *

 

"Why are we leaving, sir?  Where are we going, sir?"

"To the mines," Smokescreen ground out as he herded the Vehicons along the corridor.  "Like I told you ten times before.  You're gonna dig up energon. You know what that is, dummy?"

"I know what energon is, sir."  The Vehicon sounded almost offended.

"Great.  Awesome."

"Sooo . . ." A different Vehicon spoke up.   _"Where_ are we going again, sir?"

"Shut _up_ before I turn you into spare parts, you Decepticon piece of smelt."

The Vehicons murmured in confusion.  The mining drones had more sense than the brainless Vehicons that were sent on suicide missions to the _Heretic_ but they were still about as baseline stupid as Ratchet could make them while still leaving them enough common sense to avoid caving the mine in on themselves.  Among other things, they were programmed to unquestioningly accept commands from Smokescreen and any other member of Team Prime, to think of themselves as Autobots—Magnus and Ratchet had had a long boring theological argument over _that_ —and to shoot any and all 'Cons on sight.  The paradox of Smokescreen calling one of them a Decepticon, minor though it was, caused some of them to start glitching, their helms jerking blindly as they fell over twitching, knocking over even their unaffected comrades.  Soon almost every Vehicon was flailing on the floor.

"I don't believe this."  Smokescreen tried to pull one up and almost got knocked over himself.  "Fine, you're Autobots! You're all Autobots! Now are you happy, you useless slaggers?"

He waited impatiently as the drones slowly staggered to their feet.  Primus, Ratchet was such a hack.

"Now listen.  I'm going to open the ground bridge.  You will follow me through it.  There will be a mine.  The Vehicons there will show you what to do."  Technically Smokescreen was supposed to tell each miner their job and instruct them on how to do it—Ultra Magnus had given him a checklist—but frag that.  "You got that?"

One of them raised a sky blue arm, but did not actually wait to be called on. "So we . . . f-follow you. Through ground bridge?"

"Yes. Brilliant.  You are truly the dumbest lifeforms on this planet as of this moment."  Smokescreen slapped a button on the console.  He couldn't wait to get this over with.  He made himself walk through the portal slowly, so the Vehicons wouldn't lose sight of him.

This wasn't what Smokescreen had dreamed of when he'd signed up with the Autobots.  The smoke of Decepticon bombs still clung to his plating when he left what remained of Praxus and signed up, full of fury and zeal, ready to cut a path through the ranks of the Decepticons right alongside Optimus Prime, because of course the Prime would see he had 'destiny' written all over him.

Instead, Optimus was comfortably asleep in his berth (probably) while Smokescreen was stuck in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, herding Vehicons past the corpses of their fellows.  Smokescreen had piled the Vehicon bodies that Knockdown (if that red bot really was Knockdown) and Yellowjacket had killed just inside the entrance of the mine.  He didn't know what else to do with them; normally he would've dumped them on Ratchet for spare parts, but Smokescreen didn't want to bring up the Yellowjacket thing again.  Not until he found some proof.

Luckily none of the other Autobots ever checked on this mine; it was one of Smokescreen's "responsibilities" because Ultra Magnus hated him and enjoyed gave him boring-aft jobs as a form of torture.  Smokescreen had waited a while before "explaining" that a cave-in had killed a bunch of Vehicons and they needed more.  See, this was why he should be leading the Autobots.  Pure inspiration.  Nerves of steel.

"And more brainpower than the rest of them combined," he muttered as he returned through the portal.

"That so?" a gruff voice said.

Smokescreen whipped towards the speaker, forearms peeling apart to reveal his blasters.  When he saw who it was, his alarmed expression was replaced with a superior smirk.  "Yeah, Wheeljack. Verified fact."

Both Ultra Magnus and Ratchet despised Wheeljack, so Smokescreen enjoyed his visits.  That didn't mean he _admired_ Wheeljack or anything.  He was smarter than Wheeljack and tougher too.  Wheeljack always scurried away from base when things got tough, not like Smokescreen.  But at least Wheeljack _looked_ tough.  He studied the dark grey and indigo bot who was leaning against the wall, holding his sword in a casual stance.  Like he didn't expect Smokescreen to notice that he looked like slag, paint falling off in big flakes and grey metal faded to white around the joints.

"So why are you here, huh?" Smokescreen said.  "Haven't seen you in months."

"Just passing through." Wheeljack slid the sword back in its sheathe and stretched.  "You always leave the ground bridge open for ten minutes straight, kid? That's a lot of energy."

"So what? That's why we've got mines."  Besides, Smokescreen was on monitor duty and everyone else was asleep.  If he'd set the bridge to auto-close, he'd have been stuck.  But yeah, he knew he'd catch it if the others found out.  Wasteful expenditure of resources, blah blah blah, should have moved the Vehicons while someone else was on duty, blah blah blah.  Whatever. He'd done two boring duties at once, saving precious time and probably his sanity.  "You gonna tattle on me?"

"Eh."  Wheeljack shrugged his dark blue shoulders. "Nah."  This was why Smokescreen did not actively hate Wheeljack.

"Where's your gross pet?"

Wheeljack gave a short whistle and a scraplet popped out from behind the ground bridge console and scuttled over to him.  Wheeljack held out his arms and the vermin jumped right into them.  He even scritched its head.  Unreal.  "Ya wanna hold 'em?"

"Like frag I do.  Just don't let it bite me."

Wheeljack chuckled, then said, "Hey.  You got the Phase Shifter, right?  'S not in the relic room."

Smokescreen gave him a deep, deep scowl. "It's gone and I don't want to talk about it."

"Frag, kid."

"I said I don't want to talk about it!"

"Don't get your circuits in a smelt, Smokes." Wheeljack rubbed his jaw, thinking. "Coulda used that though."

"Where've you been, anyway?  You look fragged up."  It was true; Wheeljack's optics were dimmer than usual and his paint was peeling.   Not that he'd ever looked like a shiny showroom model, but his fingers were really twitching today. Maybe the scraplet had transmitted some horrible disease to him.

"You know where Ratchet keeps his supplies and junk?" Wheeljack asked, unknowingly confirming Smokescreen's worst fears.

"His office or the basement . . . Well, gotta go. See ya, WJ." Smokescreen started to stride away.

"Sure thing." Wheeljack crouched to let the scraplet hop onto the floor.  "Hope no one finds out how long you had that bridge open, that's all."

"Damn, you're a real jerk."

"An' proud of it."

"Ugh."

Wheeljack suggested that they start downstairs.  Smokescreen shrugged and led the way, almost tripping on the scraplet as it cavorted around them. He was tempted to give it a good kick, but even if it didn't take his foot off, Wheeljack would probably take his head off.  Crazy fragger loved that thing.

"This is it, this room. But it's locked."  

Wheeljack took the direct approach.  He transformed his arm into a gun and blasted the lock off.

"You crazy, old timer?" Smokescreen's optics flicked up and down the hall.  "If anyone heard that—"

"Nah, they won't." He sauntered in.

Smokescreen hesitated, but no one came.  He followed Wheeljack into the room.

Aspects of a morgue and a pharmacy overlapped in the cramped space.  A large cabinet stood against the back wall, while in the middle of the room tables were piled high with Autobot spare parts mixed with Vehicon (or Citizen, as the Decepticons called them) arms and legs, stuff Ratchet used to patch up the ones that were dragged in blubbering and missing limbs.

Smokescreen lounged in the doorway, projecting aloofness and cool, although Wheeljack didn't seem to notice.  The Wrecker's optics swept around the room, seeming to linger on the locked cabinet.  Instead of investigating them, though, he just picked up a couple Vehicon limbs off a table.

"Okay. Let's go."

Smokescreen couldn't believe it.  "Are you serious?  You broke in for Vehicon arms?"

"Sure." Wheeljack's swords bobbed on his back as he gave an easy shrug.  "Gotta feed Scrapper something."

"Un-be-lieveable.  You could pick those up after any fight." Smokescreen stepped into the hallway, shaking his head.  "Crazy.  That's what you are.  Cra—"

He stumbled, pain blossoming in his sensory net as Wheeljack slammed the hilt of his sword against his head.  The world fell into darkness as Smokescreen crumpled onto the floor.

"Not that crazy," Wheeljack said, tossing the Vehicon arms aside and throwing the cabinet open.  A moment later he was hefting a stiff, tarp wrapped bundle into his arms.  He stepped over the prone rookie and slipped away, like he'd never been there at all.

* * *

 

"I got 'im."  Wheeljack said, holding out the bundle.  

Shockwave didn't even look away from his workstation.  "I am busy.  Wait."

Wheeljack stood there another second, arms extended towards Shockwave.  Then he gave a shrug and tossed the bundle on the floor.  It landed with a clang and rolled.  Shockwave's head turned slowly, his massive optic fixing on Wheeljack.  Wheeljack leaned against the wall and met Shockwave's stare with an impassive expression.

"How much do you wanna bet I could shoot that big target outta your head from here?" Wheeljack said conversationally.  He transformed his arm into a gun.  "Betcha ten credits I could get a shot dead center."

"Take your best shot, Autobot."  Shockwave's voice was as unexpressive as ever.  "If you would like to see me take mine."

Wheeljack transformed his arm back and spat on the floor.

"Leave it, Scapper," Wheeljack growled as his pet nipped at a the tarp-wrapped bundle.  Scrapper skittered off a few feet, whining as they track through the organic bat goop coating the floor.  The scraplet stopped to groom their legs, sliding each one delicately against their sharp, serrated teeth.

"You should destroy that creature.  It will devour you one day," Shockwave said abruptly.

"Yeah, and I'll bet you'll be cryin' the loudest at the funeral.  If you even can."

"I am merely stating a fact."

"Yeah, and you're going to drown in bat poop one day.  Merely stating a fact."

"There are cleaner parts of the lab but I entertain you here so you will feel at home."

Wheeljack stared.  Was he crazy or had Shockwave just obliquely called him a piece of shit?

"Whatever.  You ready to deal finally?"  He kicked the bundle towards Shockwave. A corner of the tarp came loose, leaving a stiff white leg hanging out of the wrapping.

Shockwave's finials flattened against his frame, but his tone didn't change. "Yes, that is what I requested."

"Well, it ain't comin' for free, pal."

"I am well-aware of the terms of the trade, as I myself set them."

"Blah blah blah.  Gimme the formula."

Shockwave held out a holopaper covered in figures.  "I am sure you are skeptical. I will allow the use of my laboratory equipment this once to satisfy you of its authenticity.  Then you will leave."

Wheeljack grunted as he looked over at the workstation, which had energon and basic supplies and tools set out by it.  It was more than he'd expected;  maybe any 'Con, even one with the personality of an automaton, couldn't help being soft at the core.

 _That makes him as dumb as the rest of 'em then,_ Wheeljack thought, shrugging the thought away.  He glanced over the formula again and set to work.

Been a while since he'd been in the science division, but making homebrew explosives was similar enough that he could follow a formula, no problem.  The way his fingers shook, though, that was a liability.  Frag.  He should've raided Ratchet's supply store sooner, but he hated that place.  Didn't matter, he'd be feeling better in no time.

The compound took less time to complete than he'd expected.  He stared at the golden-yellow liquid steaming in the beaker, wondering if Shockwave was on the level.  He'd had Wheeljack slaving away as a gofer for months by offering a drop here, a vial there.  Why give away his biggest bargaining chip?

The stuff was the riight color, though.  And it smelled right.  He picked up a syringe and glanced over his shoulder.

Shockwave was staring at him.  Of course Shocks' optic didn't have any range of expression so he was always 'staring'.  But this was a little more dead-on than Wheeljack would have liked.  Usually Shockwave ignored him when he was . . . consuming the stuff. Scowling, the Wrecker turned his back on the 'Con and found a fuel line.  He injected it slowly, now shaking from eagerness as his systems began to buzz.  Oh _yeah,_ this was it, this was living.  Everything else was just a shadow.

"This is the real deal all right," he said, a little faster than usual.

"Yes.  I have completed my end of the bargain.  Now leave."

"Yeah, yeah," Wheeljack sneered.  He felt taller than Ultra Magnus, more powerful than the Prime.  Who was Shockwave to order him around?  "This is really the stuff though, right?  You'd better not be crossing me, 'Con.  If you're feeding me poison or something—"

"It is unfortunate that your scientific skills have degraded to such an extent that you are unable to tell whether or not you have brewed poison."

Wheeljack growled, swinging on his heel and striding up until he was right in the big bot's face.  Shockwave leaned back a fraction, but did not retreat.

"Okay, so then why?" the Autobot demanded.  "You've been stringin' me along for months and now you just hand it over?  You know how strong this makes me?"

"Yes."

He slammed his hands against the Decepticon's big orange chest and felt savage satisfaction at making Shockwave stumble.   _"So why?"_

The scientist steadied himself and this time he was the one who advanced on Wheeljack, looming over him.  "Because I have foreseen the logical outcomes of my actions."

"Yeah, I'll bet you're real good at that.  I'll bet that's why you're living alone in a stinking cave." Wheeljack scowled at Shockwave.  His reflection scowled back from the depths of Shockwave's eye, all fishbowled and disproportionate.   "Whatever.  Have fun fixing up your hunting trophy."

Wheeljack scooped Scrapper up under his arm and stormed out, gripping the holopaper tightly.  He boarded his ship without a backwards glance.

He never noticed the figure crouching in the bushes by the cave—Smokescreen, pressing a cold compress to the side of his helm as he scowled at the Wrecker's retreating back.

* * *

Knock Out's spark stuttered every time the ship creaked and he kept looking over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Trauma standing in a pool of gore, staring at him with dead eyes.

Raiding Trauma's office immediately after having a vivid nightmare about him was probably not one of Knock Out's better ideas.  But he had to do _something._

Flinching at every shadow, he bumped his way through the wall and into the room, feeling around for the lights.  They flooded on, making him squint as his vision adjusted to the brightness.

He couldn't decide if the lights made the office better or worse.  True, they added a sense of normalcy as the pictures on the walls regained their cheerful colors. The alien ripples of moonlight were banished as well.  But now the windows framed nothing but solid black squares of seawater, a void pressing in.

Knock Out turned away from them, discomfited, and was confronted with the desk where Trauma usually sat, patient and kind and annoying.  He slowly settled into the chair, staring across a light chaos of paperwork to the seat where he sat in session after session, doing his best to keep his lies smooth and untangled and trying not to look at Trauma.  Just thinking about it drained him, made him want to lay his head down on the desk and let this friendly, cluttered, terrible room smother him.

He gripped the Phase Shifter, rotating it slowly around his wrist.  He could leave, slip out the way he came.  Go back to bed.  Sneak some sleeping medication out of the med bay, maybe?

But he was tired of this—the nightmares, the damn sessions in this damn office, and _most of all_ that fragging handprint.  Bumblebee had said that he needed to separate his memories of the Decepticon Trauma and the Deceptibot Trauma—or something like that—and as silly as that struck him, Knock Out was willing to give it a try.  He drew in a deep vent and looked around, studying the office.

Well, okay. The fact that Trauma _had_ an office was a huge difference.  The one Knock Out had known had been a field medic.  They'd lived crowded, communal lives—shared tents, shared workspace, never any privacy or recognition from the higher-ups. But Knock Out had been happy . . . Happier than any time in his life, except maybe after he met—

_You're getting distracted. Focus._

He thought about Trauma, _actual_ Trauma, who had been sarcastic, smug, and condescending.  Who rarely took a swing at anyone, and yet whose reaction to the end of his short and messy affair with a frontliner (Knock Out had _told_ him to stick with medics, what was he thinking?) had been to secretly implant a bomb in the cheating fragger's cerebral cortex, patiently wait half a year before detonating it, and then frame his ex's new lover.

It was a little difficult to imagine him as a therapist.

But maybe it wasn't _so_ far-fetched.  The purple and gold jet had lent an audial to any medic who had a problem, and if his advice came with an attitude of self-importance and perceived superiority . . . well, he still gave pretty good advice.  Even near the end, when tension and dread settled over the Decepticon field hospital Trauma had carried a sense of stability with him.

Knock Out picked up a Human-made toy car from the desk and gently propelled down a slope of papers as he tried to imagine Trauma working here, filling up his schedule with sad genericons.  Would he have filled up an office with knickknacks, pictures, and datapads like the _Heretic_ 's pale imitation?  Knock Out had bunked with Trauma on occasion but that didn't provide an answer.  No one in the semi-nomadic field camps kept more than they could carry.  You just couldn't.

"This isn't helping." Knock Out muttered, sinking back in the chair as he tried to push away his turmoil.  His unease felt physical, like it had filled some unoccupied space inside him and was now expanding, pressing outward.  Great, now he was going crazy.  At this rate he _would_ need a therapist.  And that pretender was the only one on the ship!

He was tempted to give up, go to bed.  But he had another therapy session tomorrow, another occasion for this friendly, cluttered, terrible room to smother him.  Maybe he could skip?  He had done that before but Trauma often came looking for him, and the prospect of being discovered and accosted (gently, of course, because everything about him was so fragging _gentle_ ) was worse than just gritting his dentae and getting it over with.

He nibbled his lip as he shifted the holopapers back and forth with the tips of his fingers, caught up in his thoughts.  His fingers still as he looked down, focusing on them.

Listening to Bumblebee had been a mistake.  Knock Out didn't need to understand Trauma, he just needed him to back off.  And surely, tucked away on some datapad or hidden in the depths of a file, Trauma had some skeletons just waiting to be rattled.

* * *

So many documents and files . . . with _nothing useful in them._

What Knock Out had gathered from his research was that Trauma fully believed the clone story (good) and that Trauma was a conscientious, highly principled doctor (bad).

There were no 'accidental' deaths in Trauma's history, no under the table drug marketeering, no secret addictions, nothing but squeaky-clean concern and a complete lack of potential blackmail material.

With fading hope, Knock Out opened the last folder.

It was a collection of carefully preserved thank-you notes from clients.

Fuming, Knock Out slammed the folder back on the desk, then almost leapt out of his frame when a picture fell off the wall.  Swearing under his breath, he got to his feet to replace it.  Then he froze.  

A slim collection of datapads was hidden in an alcove that had been covered by the painting.

This!  This was it!  Soundwave's file _had_ to be in there, maybe the other officers' as well—Knock Out had known there was a reason he couldn't find them.  And if Trauma had hidden them, that meant there was something _juicy_ in them!

Knock Out wasted no time in booting one up, eagerly scrolling to a random section.

_The midnight moons caressed the sturdy expanse of Rev's shoulders, fondling each notch of his voluptuous tires with their heady glow.  Stratosphere gripped his waist and flared his wings, jealousy hiding Rev from the twin moons' watchful gaze.  The handsome orange grounder was his and his alone._

_"My love, you know we cannot be together," Rev moaned, engine growling to match his name.  "Return to your gilded tower and live in the luxury that befits you.  Forget me."_

_"Never!" Stratosphere growled, kissing him with all the intensity of a hungry petrorabbit spotting its first meal in days._

_As Stratosphere ravaged his mouth, Rev slid a hand to his—_

Knock Out lowered the datapad.

He gazed at it a moment, then calmly turned it over.  A cheap lithograph revealed its title:   _Lust in the Fastlane_.  Knock Out checked the rest of them.

_Pothole on Romance Avenue._

_Crystal Beaches Under Luna-2._

_Under the Hood, In the Spark._

_Wayward Motors._

And _Revving My Engine: Part 2._

Knock Out turned on each of datapad, looking for signs of hacking, telling himself that one of them could have encrypted information on it.  But deep in his spark he knew these were exactly what they looked like: cheap romance novels.

Knock Out dragged a hand down his face, then forced a smile.  He'd tried, at least. No one could say he hadn't tried.  And . . . and the scuffed lithographs on the back were amusing, at least.   _Wayward Motors_ was daring enough to suggest the silhouette of interface cables as the leads kissed in the window of some distant, fancy tower, but most of the covers were less shocking, yet more overwrought.  Like _Revving My Engine_ , featuring a slender, stately Seeker pulling a distinctly curvaceous grounder into his arms as they stared at hungrily at each other.

Knock Out leaned back, his expression becoming thoughtful as he studied the illustrations and the short summaries printed beneath them.

'When Jetwing sponsors a grounder racing team, he gets more than he bargains for—excitement, intrigue, and the attention of Speed Demon, the most exotic Cybertronian on four wheels.'

'Stationed on a distant planet, Starflight expected problems when he patched up a barbarian grounder. What he wasn't expecting . . . was to fall in love.'

'Flyby is a restless, charming ne'er-do-well who takes flight after each of his scams.  But an injured wing and the care of a down-to-earth ambulance just might change his perspective . . .'

"Oh, _I_ see," Knock Out murmured, tapping a sleek digit against the particularly exaggerated physique of 'Speed Demon, the most exotic Cybertronian on four wheels'—although he'd been _drawn_ with six of them.

Knock Out pulled his leg onto his knee, walking his fingers along his own tire as he pondered.  

He made a decision. Before he could talk himself out of it, he sunk his claws into his tire.  His mouth set in a straight line as he held the wheel in place with one hand and shredded through the rubber with the other.  It didn't hurt—much.

Since his lower leg components were held in place by the tire's mass, his heel and his forward leg plating collapsed inward as the tire deflated.  Knock Out hobbled into the hall with some difficulty.  Fortunately Trauma's room was close.

Knock Out knocked.  In a few minutes Trauma answered the door, he gazed at the red mech sleepily.  "Yes?"  

His gaze fell to Knock Out's injury and his expression changed.  "Knock Out!  What happened?"

Knock Out quickly dimmed his optics until Trauma blurred into an ambiguous silhouette.   _If I can't see his face it won't bother me. It won't._  "I was racing in the halls and I took a corner too fast . . . Can I come in?"

"Oh Knock Out," Trauma sighed.  He made a movement that Knock Out couldn't see clearly—rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, perhaps.  "Yes, yes, come in."

Knock Out aimed a penitent smile in his general direction, steadied his nerves, and limped in.

* * *

 

Somehow, and Trauma wasn't exactly sure how, he'd ended up sitting on his couch with Knock Out's pedes in his lap, unbolting the injured wheel.  He had to admit that it made more sense to tend to Knock Out's leg here instead of making him hobble halfway across the ship to the medbay.

"I'm going to ease it out now, okay?" Trauma said, slipping a hand in to grip the unbolted wheel.  

Some mecha were squeamish about their frames being manipulated, but Knock Out just nodded, watching with half-closed eyes (Trauma made a note to check them before Knock Out left, they seemed too dim) as Trauma slid his fingers under the glossy red paneling and gently tugged it outward.  The metal wheel rim wobbled as Trauma worked it out of the leg at a diagonal angle.

"You did it," Knock Out said, a surprising amount of admiration in his voice as he took the yellow-rimmed wheel from Trauma.  He reached out, vaguely patting at Trauma's shoulder."Thank you, doctor!"

Trauma smiled and wiped his hands on a sterile cloth.  "Let's save the thanks for when the procedure's complete."

"All right." Knock Out smiled back, apparently unbothered by the fact that his lower leg was more compressed than ever.  "So now, I suppose—"  His legs slid across the medic's as he half-twisted, looking questioningly over his shoulder and giving Trauma a clear view of his perfectly matched back tires, mounted on smooth silver struts.

"Ah—yes."  Trauma cleared his throat.  This had been Knock Out's suggestion too—to temporarily replace his heel tire with one of his shoulder tires.  Well, it did make sense. "If you're ready.  Which one?"

Knock Out finished rolling over, now resting on his stomach.  He gave a thoughtful frown as he tapped his finger against his lips.  "Well, it's going to take all my weight so it has to be _sturdy_.  Which one has better air pressure, do you think?  

"Ah . . ." Trauma gave each tire a ginger, assessing squeeze. They rotated easily under his hands.  "They seem . . . about equal."

"Your choice then, doctor."

"Right." Trauma shifted awkwardly out from under Knock Out's legs, opting to kneel beside the couch as he worked.   _The righthand one,_ he decided, simply because it was easier to access. "Tell me if hurts at all."

"All right."

Knock Out's wheel kept rotating as Trauma tried to detach it. The therapist decided the best solution was to grip the wheel mount with one hand while hooking two fingers into the grooves on the tire treads to keep the wheel immobile.

Knock Out sighed and shifted; the smooth silver metal pressing against Trauma's palm for a moment, and the medic's hand slipped.  "You know, this—" He lifted his leg and let his empty plating clank. "—isn't the only reason I'm here.  I wanted to . . . to say sorry."

"Knock Out."  Trauma steadied the tire again, giving the smaller mech a warm smile.  "You don't have to keep apologizing.  I know I surprised you in the hangar.  I should have called out to you.  It was an accident."

"But the way I lashed out— _you_ wouldn't have reacted like that."

"Well, probably not.  But I haven't been through what you have," Trauma said soothingly.  "Give it time.  As you become more comfortable you'll feel less inclined to respond like that—"  He lost his grip on the wheel as Knock Out abruptly sat up.

"How do you know?" he demanded passionately, barely keeping his balance as he surged to his feet, making Trauma scramble back.  He clutched his tattered tire like a shield. "How . . . how do you know it's not just how they _made_ me?  I mean, look at me."  He swept a hand up and down his frame, from the curves of his wheels to the headlights gleaming in his well-polished chest.  "I'm a car . . . a literal auto bot.  Maybe . . ." He dropped his optics.  "Maybe I'm just fooling myself thinking I could be anything else."

"Knock Out—" Trauma had risen as well.

"I'm sorry—shouldn't have bothered you—I'm sorry—"  Knock Out made to pass Trauma, flee for the door, but his leg betrayed him.  He cried out as it collapsed out from under him, sending him tumbling towards the floor.

Without hesitation Trauma sprung forward, catching Knock Out under the arms and pulling him up to his chest.  "Listen," he said softly as Knock Out leaned heavily against him.  "You're not broken or wrong.  You're just trying your best—like we all are, me and Knockdown and even Megatron."  He hoisted Knock Out up further, so the glossy red mech could get his good leg under him.

"But—"  Knock Out looked off to the side, although he didn't move away.  His fingers played along the edge of Trauma's cockpit.  "How do you _know?"_

Trauma smiled and tilted his chin up. "I just do."  His look suddenly became one of concern.  He could barely make out Knock Out's irises. "Knock Out, are you all right?"

It all happened so fast.  Trauma had a brief glimpse of those faint red rings brightening until they dazzled like stars.  Then Knock Out was squeezing them shut, surging up to kiss him.

After a long frozen moment, Trauma crushed him close and kissed back.


End file.
